Glfi    Ui 
IJlr,  N.J.  Pitush 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII 


BY 


SIR   E.   BULWER   LYTTOS 


NEW  YORK 

iKTEB NATIONAL   BOOK  COMPANY 

$10-318  Sixth  Avenue 


.  JC 


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THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 


BOOK  THE  FIRST. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OP  POMPEH. 

"  Ho,  DioT^ed  -Tf  11  -31ft  I  Do  you  sup  with  Glauous  to-night  ?" 
said  a  younfe  iiiau  of  small  stature,  who  wore  his  tunic  in  those 
loose  and  effeminate  folds  which  proved  him  to  be  a  gentleman 
and  a  coxcomb. 

*'  Alas,  no  1  dear  Clodius ;  he  has  not  invited  me,"  rephed 
Diomed,  a  man  of  portly  frame  and  of  middle  age.  "  By  Pol- 
lux, a  scurvy  trick  1  for  they  say  his  suppers  are  the  best  in 
Pompeii." 

"  Pretty  well— though  there  is  never  enough  of  wine  for  me. 
It  is  not  the  old  Greek  blood  that  flows  in  his  veins,  for  he  pre- 
tends that  wine  makes  him  dull  the  next  morning." 

"There  may  be  another  reason  for  that  thrift,"  said  Dioraed, 
raising  his  brows.  "  With  all  hie  ©onceit  and  extravagance  he 
is  not  so  rich,  I  fancy,  as  ne  affects  to  be,  and  perhaps  loves  to 
save  his  amphorae  better  than  his  wit." 

"An  additional  reason  for  supping  with  him  while  the  sester- 
ces last.    Next  year,  Diomed,  we  must  find  another  Glaucus." 

"  He  is  fond  of  the  dice,  too,  I  hear." 

"  He  is  fond  of  every  pleasure  ;  and  while  he  likes  the  pleasure 
of  giving  suppers,  we  are  all  fond  of  7^^??^," 

"  Ha,  ha,  Clodius,  that  is  well  said  I  Have  you  ever  seen  my 
wine-cellars,  by  the  by  ?" 

**  I  think  not,  my  good  Diomed." 

"  Well,  you  must  sup  with  me  some  evening,  I  have  tolerable 
murasnae*  in  my  reservoir,  and  I  will  ask  Pansa  the  sedille  to 
to  meet  you." 

"  O,  no  state  with  me  I — Persicos  odi  apparatus,  I  am  easily 
c*:>ntented.  Well,  the  day  wanes;  I  am  for  the  baths— and 
you " ^ _ 

*Mi^r(vii(» — iampreys. 


, ,  .      ^Mv^rmnoe — lamp; 

M103729 


•  TES  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIT. 

"  To  the  questor — business  of  state — afterward  to  the  temple 
of  Isis.     ValeP' 

*' An  ostentatious,  bustling,  ill-bred  fellow,**  muttered  Clodiua 
to  himself,  as  he  sauntered  slowly  away.  "  He  thinks  with  hia 
feasts  and  his  wine-cellars  to  make  us  forget  tliat  he  is  the  son  of 
a  freedman — and  so  we  will,  when  we  do  liim  the  honor  of 
winning  his  money;  these  rich  plebeians  are  a  harvest  for  us 
spendthrift  nobles." 

Thus  soliloquizing,  Clodius  arrived  in  the  Via  Domitiana,  which 
was  crowded  with  passengers  and  chariots,  and  exhibited  all 
that  gay  and  animated  exuberance  of  life  and  motion  which  we 
find  at  this  day  in  thf^  Ktie^td  o>'  Naples. 

The  beli^  of  thdk  OaVs  AiH  ;they  rapidly  glided  by  each  other, 
jingled  merrily  on  the  ear,  and  Clodius  with  smiles  or  nods 
claimed  fmi;.iliar  acquaiiitance  with,  whatever  equipage  was  most 
elejj;aat'o^'  fantjtstio:' ;int  fact-j;  no  idler  was  better  known  in 
Poaii>eii.        .  I   ;  ,  .  i  ,  '  '.  • ,  * 

*'  What,  Clodius!  and  how  have  you  slept  on  your  good  for- 
tune?" cried,  in  a  pleasant  voice,  a  young  man,  in  a  chariot  of 
the  most  fastidious  and  graceful  fashion.  Upon  its  surface  of 
bronze  were  elaborately  wrought,  in  the  still  exquisite  work- 
manship of  Greece,  reliefs  of  the  Olympian  games:  the  two 
horses  that  drew  the  car  were  of  the  rarest  breed  of  Partliia; 
their  slender  limbs  seemed  to  disdain  the  ground  and  court  the 
air,  and  yet  at  the  slightest  touch  of  the  charioteer,  who  stood 
behind  the  young  owner  of  the  equipage,  they  paused  motion- 
less, as  if  suddenly  transformed  into  stone — ^Ufeless,  but  life-like, 
as  one  of  the  breathing  wonders  of  Praxiteles. 

The  owner  himself  was  of  that  slender  and  beautiful  symme- 
try from  which  the  sculptors  of  Athens  drew  their  models;  hia 
Grecian  origin  betrayed  itself  in  his  light  but  clustering  locks, 
and  the  perfect  harmony  of  his  features.  He  wore  no  toga, 
which  in  the  time  of  the  emj^erors  had  indeed  ceased  to  be  the  gen- 
eral distinction  of  the  Romans,  and  was  especially  ridiculed  by 
the  pretenders  to  fasliiom;  but  his  tunic  glowed  in  the  richest 
hues  of  the  Tyrian  dye,  and  the  fibulas,  or  buckles,  by  wliich  it 
was  fastened,  sparkled  ^^'ith  emeralds;  around  his  neck  was  a 
chain  of  gold,  which  in  the  middle  of  his  breast  t^s-isted  itself 
into  the  form  of  a  serpent's  head,  from  the  mouth  of  which 
hung  pendent  a  large  signet  ring  of  elaborate  and  most  exquisite 
workmanship;  the  sleeves  of  the  tunic  were  loose,  and  fringed 
at  the  hand  with  gold;  and  across  the  waist  a  girdle  wrought  in 
araVjesque  designs,  and  of  the  same  material  as  the  fringe,  served 
in  lieu  of  pockets  for  the  receptacle  of  the  handkerchief  and  tlie 
purse,  the  stilus  and  the  tablets. 

"My  deivr  Glaucusl"  sahl  Clodius,  '* I  rejoice  to  see  that  your 
losses  have  so  little  affec^txi  your  mien.  Why,  you  seem  as  if 
you  ha<i  been  inspired  by  Apollo,  and  your  face  shines  with  hap- 
piness hke  a  glory;  any  one  might  take  you  for  the  >vinner,  and 
me  for  the  loser." 

*'  And  what  is  there  in  the  loss  or  gain  of  those  dull  piec^>«  o/ 
metal  that  should  change  our  8|)irit,  my  Clodius?  By  Venus, 
while  yet  young,   w©  can  cover  our  fuJl  looks  with  c^ia|>i©ts^ 


THE  LAST  DA  7'S  OF  POMPEII,  8 

while  yet  the  cithara  sounds  on  unsated  years— while  yet  the 
smile  of  Lydia  or  of  Chloe  flashes  over  our  veins  in  which  the 
blood  runs  so  swiftly,  so  long  shall  we  find  deUght  in  the  sunny 
air,  and  make  bald  time  itself  but  the  treasurer  of  our  joys. 
You  sup  with  me  to-night,  you  know." 

"  Who  ever  forgets  the  invitation  of  Glaucus? 

'•  But  which  way  go  you  now?" 

"Why,  I  thought  of  visiting  the  baths,  but  it  wants  an  hour 
to  the  usual  tune." 

"Well,  I  will  dismiss  my  chariot,  and  go  ^rith  you.  So  so,  my 
PhyUas,"  stroking  the  horse  nearest  to  him,  which,  by  a  low 
neigh  and  with  backward  ears,  playfully  acknowledged  the 
courtesy :  "a  holiday  for  you  to-day.  Is  he  not  handsome,  Clo- 
dius?" 

"Worthy  of  Phoebus."  returned  the  noble  parasite,  "or  of 
Glaucus." 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE  BLIND  FLOWER-GIRL,  AND  THE  BEAUTY  OP  FASHION.— THE 
ATHENIAN'S  CONFESSION.— THE  READER'S  INTRODUCTION  TO 
ARBACES  OP  EGYPT. 

Talking  lightly  on  a  thousand  matters,  the  two  young  men 
sauntered  through  the  streets:  they  were  now  in  the  quarter 
which  was  filled  with  the  gayest  shops  their  open  interiors  all 
and  each  radiant  with  the  gaudy  yet  harmonious  colors  of 
frescoes,  inconceivably  varied  in  fancy  and  design.  The  spark- 
ling fountams,  that  at  every  vista  threw  upward  their  grateful 
spray  in  the  summer  air ;  the  crowd  of  passengers  or  rather 
loiterers,  mostly  clad  in  robes  of  the  Tyriau  dye ;  the  gay  groups 
round  each  more  attractive  shop ;  the  slaves  passing  to  and  fro 
with  buckets  of  bronze,  cast  in  the  most  graceful  shapes,  and 
borne  upon  their  heads ;  the  country  girls  stationed  at  frequent 
intervals  with  baskets  of  blusliing  fruit,  and  flowers  more  allur- 
ing to  the  ancient  Itahans  than  to  their  descendants  (w^th  whom, 
indeed,  "latet  anguis  in  herba,''  a  disease  seems  lurking  in  every 
violet  and  rose),  the  numerous  haunts  which  fulfilled  with  that 
idle  people  the  office  of  cafes  and  clubs  at  this  day ;  the  shops, 
where  on  shelves  of  marble  were  ranged  the  vases  of  wine  and 
oil,  and  before  whose  thresholds,  seats,  protected  from  the  sun 
by  a  pui-ple  awTiing,  invited  the  weaiy  to  rest  and  the  indolent  to 
lounge^— made  a  scene  of  such  glowing  and  vivacious  excitement, 
as  might  well  give  the  Athenian  spirit  of  Glaucus  an  excuse  for 
its  susceptibility  to  joy. 

*  Talk  .to  me  no  more  of  Rome,"  said  he  to  Clodius.  "  Pleasm-e 
is  too  stately  and  ponderous  in  those  mighty  walls :  even  in  the 
precincts  of  the  court— even  in  the  Golden  House  of  Nero,  and 
the  incipient  glories  of  the  palace  of  Titus,  there  is  a  certain  dul- 
ness  of  magnificence — the  eye  aches —  the  spirit  is  wearied ;  be- 
sides, my  Clodius,  we  are  discontented  when  we  compare  the  onor- 
mous  luxury  and  wealth  of  others  with  the  mediocrity  of  our 
own  state.    But  here  we  surrender  ourselves  easily  to  pleasure. 


4  THE  LAST  DA  T8  OF  POMPEH^ 

and  we  have  the  brilliancy  of  luxury  without  the  lassitude  of  its 
pouip." 

*'  It  was  from  that  feeling  that  you  chose  your  summor  retreat 
at  Pompeii?" 

"  It  was.  I  prefer  it  to  Balas;  I  grant  the  charms  of  the  latter, 
but  I  love  not  the  pedants  who  resort  there,  and  who  seem  to 
weigh  out  their  pleasures  by  the  drachm." 

"Yet  you  are  fond  of  the  learned,  too;  and  for  ix)etry,  why 
your  house  is  literally  eloquent  with  ^schylus  and  Homer,  the 
epic  and  the  drama." 

"Yes,  but  those  Romans  who  mimic  my  Athenian  ancestors  do 
everything  so  heavily.  Even  in  the  chase  they  make  their  slaves 
carry  Plato  with  them;  and  whenever  the  boar  is  lost,  out  they 
take  their  books  and  their  papyrus,  in  order  not  to  lose  their  time 
too.  When  the  dancing-girls  swim  before  them  in  all  the  blan- 
dishment of  Persian  manners,  some  drone  of  a  freedman,  with  a 
face  of  stone,  reads  them  a  section  of  Cicero  "  De  Officiis."  Un- 
skilful pharmacistsi  pleasure  and  study  are  not  elements  to  be 
thus  mixed  together — they  must  be  enjoyed  separately;  the  Ro- 
mans lose  both  by  this  pragmatical  affectation  of  refinement,  and 
prove  that  they  have  no  soul  for  either.  Oh,  my  Clodius,  how 
little  your  couiatrymen  know  of  the  ti-ue  versatility  of  a  Pericles, 
or  of  the  true  witcheries  of  an  Aspasia!  It  was  but  the  other  day 
that  I  paid  a  visit  to  Pliny;  he  was  sitting  in  his  summer-house 
writing,  while  an  unfortunate  slave  played  on  the  tibia.  His 
nephew  (oh I  wliip  me,  such  philosophical  coxcombs!)  was  read- 
ing Thucydides'  description  of  the  plague,  and  nodding  his  con- 
ceited little  head  in  time  to  the  music,  while  his  lips  were  repeat- 
ing all  the  loathsome  details  of  that  terrible  delineation.  Tho 
jmppy  saw  nothing  incongruous  in  learning  at  the  same  time  a 
ditty  of  love  and  a  description  of  the  plague." 

*'  Why  they  are  much  the  same  thing,"  said  Clodius. 

"So  I  told  him,  in  excuse  for  his  coxcombry— but  my  youth 
stared  me  rebukingly  in  the  face  without  taking  the  jest,  and 
answered,  that  it  was  only  the  insensate  ear  tliat  the  music 
pleased,  whereas  the  lx)ok  (the  description  of  the  plague,  mind 
3'ou!)  elevated  the  heart.  *  Ah!'  quotn  the  fat  uncle,  wheezing, 
*  my  boy  is  quite  an  Athenian,  always  mixing  the  utile  with  the 
diih-eJ'  O  Slinerva,  how  I  laughed  in  my  sleeve!  While  I  was 
there,  tbey  came  to  tell  the  boy-sophist  that  his  favorite  freed- 
man was  just  dead  of  a  fever.  'Inexorable  death!'  cried  he — 
'  get  me  my  Horace.  How  beautifully  the  sweet  poet  consoles 
us  for  these  misfortunes!'  Oh,  can  these  men  love,  my  Clodius? 
Scarcely  even  with  the  senses.  How  seldom  a  Roman  has  a 
heartl  He  is  but  the  mechanism  of  genius — he  wants  its  bon«sand 
flesh. 

Though  Clodius  was  a  little  sore  at  these  remarks  on  his  coun- 
trymen, he  affected  to  sympjathize  with  his  friend,  partly  be- 
cause he  was  by  nature  a  j)arasite,  and  partly  ^jecause  it  was  the 
fashion  among  the  dissolute  young  Romans  to  affect  a  little  con- 
tempt for  the  very  birth  which,  in  reality,  made  them  so  arro- 
gant; it  was  the  mode  to  imitate  the  Greeks,  and  yet  to  laugh  at 
iLeir  own  clumsy  imitation. 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  5 

Thus  conversing,  their  steps  were  arrested  by  a  crowd  gathered 
round  an  open  space  where  three  streets  met;  and,  just  where 
the  porticos  of  a  light  and  graceful  temple  thi-ew  their  shade, 
there  stood  a  young  girl,  with  a  flower  basket  on  her  right  ai-m, 
and  a  small  three-stringed  instrument  of  music  in  the  left  hand, 
to  whose  low  and  soft  tones  she  was  modulating  a  wild  and  half- 
barbaric  air.  At  every  pause  in  the  music  she  gracefully  waved 
her  flower-basket  round,  inviting  the  loiterers  to  buy;  and  many 
a  sesterce  was  showered  into  the  basket,  either  in  compliment  to 
the  music  or  .  in  compassion  to  the  songstress — for  she  was  blind. 

"It  is  my  poor  Thessalian,"  said  Glaucus,  stopping;  "I  have 
not  seen  her  since  my  return  to  Pompeii.  Hush  I  her  voice  is 
»weet;  let  us  listen." 

THE  BLIND  FLOWER-GIRL'S  SONG. 


Buy  my  flowers— 0  buy — I  pray 

The  blind  girl  comes  from  afar; 
If  the  earth  be  as  fair  as  I  hear  them  say, 

These  flowers  her  children  are? 
Do  they  her  beauty  keep? 

They  are  fresh  from  her  lap,  I  know; 
For  I  caught  them  fast  asleep 

In  her  arms  an  hour  ago! 

With  the  air  which  is  her  breath — 
Her  soft  and  delicate  breath — 

Over  them  murmuring! 

On  their  lips  her  sweet  kiss  lingers  yet, 
And  their  cheeks  with  her  tender  tears  are  wet. 
For  she  weeps — that  gentle  mother  weeps — 
(As  morn  and  night  her  watch  she  keeps, 
With  a  yearning  heart  and  a  passionate  care) 
To  see  the  young  things  grow  so  fair; 

She  weeps — for  love  she  weeps; 

And  the  dews  are  the  tears  she  weeps, 

From  the  well  of  a  mother's  lovel 

11. 

Te  have  a  world  of  light, 

Where  love  in  the  loved  rejoices; 
But  the  blind  girl's  home  is  the  House  of  Niglrt» 

And  its  beings  are  empty  voices. 

As  one  in  the  realm  below, 
I  stand  by  the  streams  of  woel 
I  hear  the  vain  shadows  glide, 
1  feel  their  soft  breath  at  my  side. 

And  I  thirst  the  loved  forms  to  see, 
And  I  stretch  my  fond  arms  around. 
And  I  catch  but  a  shapeless  sound, 

For  the  living  are  ghosts  to  me. 

Come  buy— come  buy! — 
Hark!  how  the  sweet  things  sigU 
<|For  they  have  a  voice  hke  ours), 
Tlie  breath  of  the  blind  girl  closes 


6  THE  LAF^T  DAYS  OF  POMPEH. 

The  leaves  of  tlie  saddeninj?  roses 
"We  are  tender,  we  sons  of  liKlit. 
"We shrink  from  thiseliild  of  iiiRlit; 
From  tlH^  prasp  of  the  blind  pirl  free  us^ 
We  yoarn  for  th('  eyes  that  see  us — 
"NVe  are  for  niirht  too  pay 
In  your  eyes  we  ln'hold  the  day — 
O  buy— O  buy  the  flowers! 

"I  must  have  yon  bunch  of  violets,  sweet  Nydia,"  Faid  Glau- 
cus,  pressing  through  tlie  crowd,  and  dropping  a  small  handful 
of  small  coins  into  the  basket ;  "your  voice  is  more  charming 
than  ever." 

The  blind  girl  started  forward  as  she  heard  the  Athenian's 
voice  ;  then  as  suddenly  paused,  while  the  blood  rushed  violently 
over  neck,  cheek,  and  tomplos. 

**So  you  are  returned  !"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice  ;  and  then  re- 
peated half  to  herself,  *'  Glaucus  is  returned  1" 

"Yes,  child,  I  have  not  been  at  Pompeii  above  a  few  days. 
My  garden  wants  your  care,  as  before  ;  you  ^vill  visit  it,  I  trust, 
to-morrow.  And  nfind,  no  garlands  at  my  house  shall  be  woven 
by  any  hands  but  those  of  the  pretty  Nydia." 

Nydia  smiled  joyously,  but  did  not  answer,  and  Glaucus,  plao^ 
ing  in  his  breast  the  violets  he  had  selected,  turned  gayly  and 
carelessly  from  the  crowd. 

"So,  she  is  a  sort  of  a  client  of  yours,  this  child?"  said  Clo- 
dius. 

"  Ay — does  she  not  sing  prettily?  She  interests  me,  the  poor 
slave  I  Besides,  she  is  from  the  land  of  the  Gods'  hill — Olympus 
frowned  upon  her  cradle — she  is  of  Thessaly." 

"The  ^^^tches'  country." 

"  True  :  but  for  mj^  part  I  find  every  woman  a  witch  ;  and  at 
Pompeii,  by  Venus  !  the  very  air  seems  to  have  taken  a  love- 
philter,  so  handsome  does  every  face  without  a  beard  seem  in 
my  eyes." 

"  And  lo  I  one  of  the  handsomest  in  Pompeii,  old  Diomed's 
daughter,  the  rich  Julia?"  said  Clodius,  as  a  young  lady,  her  face 
covered  by  a  veil,  and  attended  by  two  female  slaves,  approached 
them,  in  her  way  to  the  bath. 

"Fair  Julia,  we  salute  thco  1"  said  Clodius. 

Julia  partly  raised  her  veil,  so  as  with  some  coquetry  to  dis- 
j)lay  a  bold  Roman  profile,  a  full  dark  bright  eye,  and  a  cheek 
over  wliose  natural  olive  art  shod  a  fairer  and  softer  rose. 

"And  Glaucus,  too.  is  returned!"  said  she  glancing  meaningly 
at  the  Athenian.  "Has  ho  forgotten,"  she  added,  in  a  half- 
whisper,  "  his  friends  of  tho  last  year?" 

Beautiful  Julia!  even  Lethe  ilself,  if  it  disappear  in  one  part 
of  the  earth,  rises  again  in  another.    Jupiter  does  not  allow  us 
ever  to  forget  for  more  than  a  moment;  but  Venus,  more  harsh 
still,  vouchsafes  not  even  a  moment's  oblivion." 
•  Glaucus  is  never  at  a  loss  for  fair  words." 

"Who  is,  when  the  object  of  them  is  so  fair?" 

"  We  shall  see  you  both  at  my  father's  villa,  soon,"  said  Julia, 
turning  to  Clodius 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  1 

•*  We  will  mark  the  day  in  which  we  visit  you  with  a  white 
stone,"  answered  the  gamester. 

Julia  dropped  her  veil,  but  slowly,  so  that  her  last  glance  reap- 
ed on  the  Athenian  with  affected  timidity  and  real  boldness;  the 
glance  bespoke  tenderness  and  reproach. 

The  friends  passed  on. 

"Julia  is  certainly  handsome,"  said  Glaucus. 

"And  last  year  you  would  have  made  that  confession  in  a 
warmer  tone." 

"  True:  I  was  dazzled  at  the  first  sight,  and  mistook  for  a  gem 
that  which  was  but  an  artful  imitation." 

"Nay,"  retui-ned  Clodius,  "all  women  are  the  same  at  heart. 
Happy  he  who  weds  a  handsome  face  and  a  large  dower.  What 
more  can  he  desire?" 

Glaucus  sighed. 

They  were  now  in  a  street  less  crowded  than  the  rest,  at  the 
end  of  which  they  beheld  that  broad  and  most  lovely  sea,  which 
upon  those  delicious  coasts  seems  to  have  renounced  its  preroga- 
tive of  terror — so  soft  are  the  crisping  winds  that  hover  around 
its  bosom,  so  glowing  and  so  various  are  the  hues  which  it  takes 
from  the  rosy  clouds,  so  fragrant  are  the  perfumes  which  the 
breezes  from  the  land  scatter  over  its  depths.  From  such  a  sea 
might  you  well  believe  that  Aphrodite  rose  to  take  the  empire  of 
the  earth. 

"It  is  still  early  for  the  bath,"  said  the  Greek,  who  was  the 
creature  of  every  poetical  impulse;  "let  us  wander  from  the 
crowded  city,  and  look  upon  the  sea  wliile  the  noon  yet  laughs 
along  its  billows." 

"  Wilti  all  my  heart,"  said  Clodius;  "and  the  bay,  too,  is  al- 
ways the  most  animated  part  of  the  city." 

Pompeii  was  the  miniature  of  the  civilization  of  that  age. 
Within  the  narrow  compass  of  its  walls  was  contained,  as  it 
were,  a  specimen  of  every  gift  which  luxury  offered  to  power. 
In  its  minute  but  glittering  shops,  its  tiny  palaces,  its  paths,  its 
forum,  its  theatre,  its  circus — in  the  energy  yet  corruption,  in 
the  refinement  yet  the  vice,  of  its  people,  you  beheld  a  model  of 
the  whole  empire. 

It  was  a  toy,  a  plaything,  a  showbox,  in  which  the  gods  seem- 
ed pleased  to  keep  the  representation  of  the  gi^eat  monarchy  of 
earth,  and  which  they  afterward  hid  from  time,  to  give  to  the 
wonder  of  posterity,  the  moral  of  the  maxim,  that  under  the 
sun  there  is  nothing  new. 

Crowded  in  the  glassy  baj^  were  the  vessels  of  commerce  and 
the  gilded  galleys  for  the  pleasures  of  the  rich  citizens.  The 
boats  of  the  fishermen  glided  rapidly  to  and  fro;  and  afar  off 
you  saw  the  tall  masts  of  the  fleet  under  the  command  of  Pliny. 
Upon  the  shore  sat  a  Sicilian,  who,  with  vehement  gestures  and 
flexile  features,  was  narrating  to  a  group  of  fishermen  and  peas- 
ants a  strange  tale  of  shipwrecked  mariners  and  friendly  dol- 
phins; just  as  at  tins  day,  in  the  modern  neighborhood,  you  may 
hear  upon  the  Mole  of  Naples. 

Drawing  ]iis  comrade  from  the  crowd,  the  Greek  bent  his  steps 
toward  a  solitary  part  of  the  beach,  .and  the  two  friends,  seated 


8  THE  LAST  BAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

on  a  small  crag  which  rose  amid  the  pebbles,  inhaled  the  volu]>« 
tuous  and  cooling  breeze,  which,  dancing  over  the  waters,  kep* 
music  with  its  invisible  feet.  There  was,  perhaps,  something  in 
the  scene  tliat  invited  them  to  silence  and  reverie.  Clooiua, 
shading  his  eyes  from  the  burning  skv,  was  calculating  the 
gains  of  the  last  week;  and  the  Greek,  leaning  upon  his  hand, 
and  shrinking  not  from  that  sun — his  nation's  tutelary  deity — 
with  whose  fluent  light  of  poesy,  and  joy,  and  love,  his  own 
reins  were  filled,  gazed  upon  the  broad  expanse,  and  envied,  per- 
haps, every  wind  tliat  bent  its  pinions  toward  the  shores  of 
Greece. 

"Tell  me,  Clodius,**  said  the  Greek  at  last,  "hast  thou  evor 
been  in  love?" 

•*  Yes,  very  often." 

"He  who  has  loved  often,"  answered  Glaucus,  "has  loved 
never.  There  is  but  one  Eros,  though  there  are  many  counter- 
feits of  him." 

"  The  counterfeits  are  not  bad  little  gods,  upon  the  whole,"  an- 
swered Clodius. 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  returned  the  Greek.  "  I  adore  even  the 
shadow  of  Love;  but  I  adore  himself  yet  more." 

"Art  thou,  then,  soberly  and  earnestly  in  love?  Hast  thou 
that  feeling  which  the  poets  describe — a  feeling  that  makes  us 
neglect  our  suppers,  forswear  the  theater,  and  write  elegies?  I 
should  never  have  thought  it.     You  dissemble  well." 

"I  am  not  far  gone  enough  for  that,"  returned  Glaucus,  smil- 
ing; "  or  rather  I  say  with  TibuUus; 

"ITe  whom  love  rules,  where'er  his  path  may  be, 
Walks  safe  and  sacred." 

In  fact,  I  am  not  in  love;  but  I  could  be  if  there  were  but  occa- 
sion to  see  the  object.  Eros  would  light  his  torch,  but  the 
priests  have  given  him  no  oU." 

"  Shall  I  guess  the  object? — Is  it  not  Diomed's  daughter?  She 
adores  you,  and  does  not  affect  to  conceal  it;  and  by  Hercules,  I 
say  again  and  again,  she  is  both  handsome  and  rich.  She  will 
bind  the  door-posts  of  her  husband  vdth  golden  fillets." 

"  No,  I  do  not  desire  to  sell  myself.  Diomed's  daughter  is 
handsome,  I  grant;  and  at  one  time,  had  slie  not  been  the  grand- 

cliild  of  a  freedman,  I  might  have Yet  no — she  carries  all 

her  beauty  in  her  face;  her  manners  are  not  maidenlike,  and  hei 
mind  knows  no  culture  save  that  of  pleasure." 

"You  are  ungrateful.  Tell  me,  then,  who  is  the  fortunate 
virgin?" 

*'  You  shall  hear,  my  Clodius.  Several  months  ago  T  was  so- 
journing at  Neapolis,*  a  cit}"  utterly  to  my  own  Yieart,  for  it 
still  retains  the  manners  and  stamp  or  its  Grecian  origin — and  it 
vet  merits  the  name  of  Parthenope,  from  its  delicious  air  and  its 
beautiful  sliores.  One  day  I  entered  the  temple  of  Minerva,  to 
offer  up  my  prayers,  not  lor  myself  more  than  for  the  city  on 
which  Pallas  smiles  no  longer.  The  temple  was  empty  and  de- 
,  — 

•  Naples. 


\  TSE  LAST  DA  T8  OF  POMPmt  9 

serted.  The  recollections  of  Athens  crowded  fast  and  meltingly 
upon  me;  imagining  myself  still  alone  in  the  temple,  and  ab- 
sorbed in  the  earnestness  of  my  devotion,  my  prayer  gushed 
from  my  heart  to  my  lips,  and  I  wept  as  I  prayed.  I  was  startled 
in  the  midst  of  my  devotions,  however,  by  a  deep  sigh;  I  turned 
suddenly  round,  and  just  behind  me  was  a  female.  She  had 
raised  her  veil  also  in  prayer;  and  when  our  eyes  met,  methought 
a  celestial  ray  shot  from  those  dark  and  smiliug  orbs  at  once 
into  my  soul.  Never,  my  Clodius,  have  I  seen  mortal  face  more 
exquisitely  molded;  a  certain  melancholy  softened  and  yet  ele- 
vated its  expression;  that  unutterable  something  which  springs 
from  the  soul,  and  which  our  sculptors  have  imparted  to  the 
aspect  of  Psyche,  gave  her  beauty  I  know  not  what  of  divine  and 
noble;  tears  were  rolling  down  her  eyes.  I  guessed  at  once  that 
she  was  also  of  Athenian  lineage;  and  that  in  my  prayer  for 
Athens  her  heart  had  responded  to  mine.  I  spoke  to  her,  though 
with  a  faltering  voice — '  Art  thou  not,  too,  Athenian?'  said  I,  '  O 
beautiful  virgin  I'  At  the  sound  of  my  voice  she  blushed,  and 
half  drew  her  veil  across  her  face — '  My  forefathers'  ashes,'  said 
she,  '  repose  by  the  waters  of  Ilyssus;  my  birth  is  of  Neapolis; 
but  my  heart,  as  my  lineage,  is  Athenian.'  *Let  us,  then,'  said 
I,  '  make  our  offerings  together;'  and,  as  the  priest  now  apjpeared, 
we  stood  side  by  side,  while  we  followed  the  priest  in  his  cere- 
monial prayer;  together  we  touched  the  knees  of  the  goddess — 
together  we  laid  our  olive  garlands  on  the  altar.  I  felt  a  strange 
emotion  of  almost  sacred  tenderness  at  this  companionship. 

"  We,  strangers  from  a  far  and  fallen  land,  stood  together  and 
alone  in  that  temple  of  oui-  country's  deity;  was  it  not  natural 
that  my  heart  should  yearn  to  my  countrywoman,  for  so  I  might 
surely  call  her?  I  felt  as  if  I  had  known  her  for  years;  and  that 
simple  rite  seemed,  as  by  a  miracle,  to  operate  on  the  sympathies 
and  ties  of  time.  Silently  we  left  the  temple,  and  I  was  about 
to  ask  her  where  she  dwelt,  and  if  I  might  be  permitted  to  visit 
her,  when  a  youth,  in  whose  features  there  was  some  kindred 
resemblance  to  her  own,  and  who  stood  upon  the  steps  of  the 
fane,  took  her  by  the  hand.  She  turned  round  and  bade  me 
farewell.  The  crowd  separated  us;  I  saw  her  no  more.  On 
reaching  my  home  I  found  letters,  which  obliged  me  to  set  out 
for  Athens,  for  my  relations  threatened  me  with  litigation  con- 
cerning my  inheritance.  When  that  suit  was  happily  over,  I 
repaired  once  more  to  Neapolis;  I  instituted  inquiries  throughout 
the  whole  city,  I  could  discover  no  clew  of  my  lost  country- 
woman, and,  hoping  to  lose  in  gayety  all  remembrance  of  that 
beautiful  apparition,  I  hastened  to  plunge  myself  amid  the  luxu- 
ries of  Pompeii.  This  is  all  my  history,  I  do  not  love;  but  I  re- 
member and  regret." 

As  Clodius  was  about  to  reply,  a  slow  and  stately  step  8»- 
proached  them,  and  at  the  sound  it  made  among  the  pebbles,  each 
turned,  and  each  recognized  the  new-comer. 

It  was  a  man  who  had  scarcely  reached  his  fortieth  year,  of 
tall  stature,  and  of  a  thin  but  nervoHS  and  sinewy  frame.  His 
skin,  dark  and  bronzed,  betrayed  his  Eastern  origin;  and  his 
features  had  something  Greek  in  their  outline,  (especially  in  the 


»  THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEII. 

chin,  the  lip,  and  the  brow,)  save  that  the  nose  was  somewhat 
raised  and  aquiline;  and  the  bones,  hard  and  visible,  forbade  that 
fleshy  and  waving  contour  which  on  the  Grecian  physiognomy 
preserved  even  in  manhood  the  round  and  beautilul  curves  of 
youth.  His  eyes,  large  and  black  as  the  deepest  night,  shone 
with  no  varying  and  uncertain  luster.  A  deep,  thoughtful,  and 
half-melancholy  calm,  seemed  unalterably  fixed  in  their  majestic 
and  commanding  gaze.  His  step  and  mien  were  peculiarly  se- 
date and  loftv,  and  something  foreign  in  the  fashion  and  the 
sober  hues  of  nis  sweeping  garments  added  to  the  impressive  ef- 
fect of  his  quiet  countenance  and  stately  form.  Each  of  the 
young  men,  in  saluting  the  new-comer,  made  mechanically,  and 
with  care  to  conceal  it  from  him,  a  slight  gesture  or  sign  with 
their  fingers;  for  Arbaces,  the  Egyptian,  was  supposed  to  possess 
the  fatal  gift  of  the  evil  eye. 

**  The  scene  must,  indeed,  be  beautiful,"  said  Arbaces,  with  a 
cold  though  courteous  smile,  "  which  draws  the  gay  Clodius,  and 
Glaucus  the  aU-admired,  from  the  crowded  thoroughfares  of  the 
city." 

**Is  Nature  ordinarily  so  unattractive?"  asked  the  Greek. 

"Tothe  dissipated — yes." 

"  An  austere  reply,  but  scarcely  a  wise  one.  Pleasure  dellghta 
In  contrasts;  it  is  from  dissipation  that  we  learn  to  enjoy 
solitude,  and  from  solitude  dissipation." 

"So  think  the  young  philosophers  of  the  Garden,"  replied  the 
Egyptian;  "they  mistake  lassitude  for  meditation,  and  imagine 
that,  because  they  are  sated  with  others,  they  know  the  delight 
of  loneliness.  But  not  in  such  jaded  bosoms  can  Nature 
awaken  that  enthusiasm  which  alone  draws  from  her  chaste 
reserve  all  her  unspeakable  beauty:  she  demands  from  you,  not 
the  exhaustion  of  passion,  but  all  that  fervor,  from  which  ^ou 
only  seek,  in  adoring  her,  a  release.  When,  young  Athenian, 
the  moon  revealed  herself  in  visions  of  light  to  Endymion,  it 
was  after  a  day  passed,  not  among  the  feverish  haunts  of  men, 
but  on  the  still  mountains  and  in  the  solitary  valleys  of  the 
hunter." 

"  Beautiful  simile  I"  cried  Glaucus;  "most  unjust  application! 
Exhaustion!  that  word  is  for  age,  not  youth.  By  me,  »t  least, 
one  moment  of  satiety  has  never  been  known." 

Again  the  Egyptian  smileil,  but  his  smile  was  cold  and  blight- 
ing, and  even  the  unimaginative  Clodius  froze  beneath  its  light. 
He  did  not,  however,  reply  to  the  passionate  exclamation  of 
Glaucus,  but,  after  a  pause,  he  said,  in  a  soft  and  melancholy 
voice — 

"After  all,  you  do  right  to  enjoy  the  hour  while  it  smiles  for 
you;  the  rose  soon  withers,  the  i^erfume  soon  exhales.  And  we, 
O  Glaucus!  strangers  in  the  land,  and  far  from  our  fathers' 
ashes,  what  is  there  left  for  us  but  pleasure  or  regret? — for  you 
the  first,  perhaps  for  me  th6»  last." 

The  briglit  eyes  of  the  Grook  were  suddenly  suffused  with 
tears.  "Ah,  speak  not.  ArJ>aces,"  he  cried — "speak  not  of  om- 
ancestors.    Let  us  forget  that  there  were  ever  other  liberties 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  11 

thaii  those  of  Rome  I  And  glory  I — oh,  vainly  wonld  we  call  her 
ghost  from  the  fields  of  Marathon  and  Thermopylae  1" 

"Thy  heart  rebukes  thee  while  thou  speakest,"  said  ttie 
Egyptian;  "  and  in  thy  gayeties  this  night,  thou  wilt  be  mcHre 
mindful  of  Leasna*  than  of  Lais.     VaieP* 

Thus  saying,  he  gathered  his  robe  around  him,  and  slowly 
iwept  away. 

"1  breathe  more  freely,"  said  Clodius.  "Imitating  the 
Egyptians,  we  sometimes  introduce  a  skeleton  at  our  feasts.  Xn 
truth,  the  presence  of  such  an  Egyptian  as  yon  gliding  shadow 
were  specter  enough  to  sour  the  richest  grape  of  the  Falemian.** 

"Strange  man!"  saidGlaucus,  musingly;  "  yet  dead  though  he 
seem  to  pleasure,  and  cold  to  the  objects  of  the  world,  scandal 
belies  him,  or  his  house  and  his  heart  could  tell  a  different  tale." 

*'  Ah  I  there  are  whispers  of  other  orgies  than  those  of  Osiris 
in  his  gloomy  mansion.  He  is  rich,  too,  they  say.  Can  we  not 
get  him  among  us,  and  teach  him  the  charms  of  dice?  Pleasure 
of  pleasures  1  hot  fever  of  hope  and  fear!  inexpressible,  un jaded 
passion!  how  fiercely  beautiful  thou  art,  Oh  Gaming!" 

"Inspired — ^inspired!"  cried  Glaucus,  laughing;  "the  oracle 
speaks  poetry  in  Clodius.    What  miracle  next?" 

CHAPTER  in. 

PARENTAGE  OF  GLAUCUS.— DESCRIPTION  OP  THE  HOUSES  OF 

POMPEII.— A  CLASSIC    REVEL. 

Heaven  had  given  to  Glaucus  every  blessing  but  one;  it  had 
given  him  beauty,  health,  fortune,  genius,  illustrious  descent,  a 
heart  of  fire,  a  mind  of  poetry;  but  it  had  denied  him  the  heritage 
of  freedom.  He  was  born  in  Athens,  the  subject  of  Rome.  Suc- 
ceeding early  to  an  ample  inheritance,  he  had  indulged  that  in- 
clination for  travel  so  natural  to  the  young,  and  had  drunk  deep 
of  the  intoxicating  draught  of  pleasure  amid  the  gorgeous 
luxuries  of  the  imperial  court. 

He  was  an  Alcibiades  without  ambition.  He  was  what  a  man 
of  imagination,  youth,  fortune,  and  talents,  readily  becomes 
when  you  deprive  him  of  the  inspiration  of  glory.  His  house  at 
Rome  was  the  theme  of  the  debauchees,  but  also  the  lovers  of 
art;  and  the  sculptors  of  Greece  delighted  to  task  their  skill  in 
adorning  the  porticos  and  exedra  of  an  Athenian.  His  retreat  in 
Pompeii — ^alasl  the  colors  are  faded  now,  the  walls  stripped  of 
their  paintings! — ^its  main  beauty,  its  elaborate  finish  of  grace 
and  ornament,  is  gone;  yet  when  first  given  once  more  to  the 
day,  what  eulogies,  what  wonder,  did  its  minute  and  glowing 
decorations  create — its  paintings — its  mosaics  I  Passionately  en- 
amored of  poetry  and  the  drama,  which  recalled  to  Glaucus  the 
wit  and  the  heroism  of  his  race,  that  fairy  mansion  was  adorned 
with  representations  of  .^Eschylus  and  Homer.    And  antiquaries, 

*  Lesena,  the  heroic  mistress  of  Aristogiton,  when  put  to  the  torture, 
bit  out  her  tongue,  that  the  pain  might  not  Induce  her  to  betray  the  con- 
spiracy against  the  sons  of  Pisistratus.  The  statue  of  a  lioness,  ereotef| 
m  her  honor,  was  to  be  seen  in  Atheus  in  the  time  of  FausaniaSt 


13  THE  LAST  DA  Y8  OF  POMPEII, 

who  resolve  taste  to  a  trade,  have  turned  the  patron  to  the  pro 
feasor,  and  still  (though  the  error  is  now  acknowledged)  they 
style  in  custom,  as  they  first  named  in  mistake,  the  disburied 
house  of  the  Athenian  Glaucus  "the  house  of  the  DR^\.JiA.Tia 

POET." 

Previous  to  our  description  of  this  house,  it  may  be  as  well  to 
convey  to  the  reader  a  general  notice  of  the  houses  of  Pompeii, 
which  we  will  find  to  resemble  the  plans  of  Vitruvius;  but  with 
all  those  differences  in  detail,  of  caprice  and  taste,  which,  heinp; 
natural  to  mankind,  have  always  puzzled  antiquaries.  We  shall 
endeavor  to  make  this  description  as  clear  and  unpedantic  as  pos- 
sible. 

You  enter  then  usually  by  a  small  entrance  passage  (called  c^sti- 
hulum)y  into  a  hall,  sometimes  with  (but  more  frequently  without) 
the  ornament  of  columns;  around  three  sides  of  this  hall  are 
doors  communicating  A\ith  several  *  bed-chambers  (amon^  wliich 
is  the  porter's),  the  best  of  these  being  usually  appropriated  to 
country  visitors.  At  the  extremity  of  the  hall,  on  either  side  to 
the  right  and  left,  if  the  house  is  large,  there  are  two  small  re- 
cesses, rather  than  chambers,  generally  devoted  to  the  ladies  of 
the  mansion;  and  in  the  center  of  the  tesselated  pavement  of  the 
hall  is  invariably  a  square,  shallow  reservoir  for  raiu-water  (clas- 
sically termed  inipbivium),  which  was  admitted  by  an  aperture 
in  the  roof  above;  the  said  aperture  being  covered  at  will  by  an 
awning.  Near  this  impluvium,  which  had  a  pecuUar  sanctity  in 
the  eyes  of  the  ancients,  were  sometimes  (but  at  Pompeii  more 
rarely  than  at  Rome)  placed  images  of  household  gods— the  hos- 
pitable hearth,  often  mentioned  by  Roman  poets,  and  conse- 
crated to  the  Lares,  was,  at  Pompeii,  almost  invariably  formed  by 
a  movable  brazUr:  while  in  some  corner,  often  the  most  ostenta- 
tious place,  was  deposited  a  huge  wooden  chest,  ornamented  and 
strengthened  by  bands  of  bronze  or  iron,  and  secured  by  strong 
hooks  upon  a  stone  pedestal  so  firmly  as  to  defy  the  attempts  of 
any  robber  to  drtach  it  from  its  position.  It  is  supposed  that 
this  cliest  was  the  money-box,  or  coffer,  of  the  master  of  the 
house;  though  as  no  money  has  been  found  in  any  of  the  chests 
discovered  at  Pompeii,  it  is  probable  that  it  was  sometimes 
rather  designed  for  ornament  than  use. 

In  this  hall  (or  atrium,  to  speak  classicallv)  the  client*  and  visi- 
tors of  inferior  ranks  were  usually  received.  In  the  housw?  of 
the  more  "respectable,"  an  dtrietixifi,  or  slave  i>eculiarly  devoted 
to  the  service  of  the  hall,  was  invariably  detained,  and  his  rank 
among  his  fellow-slaves  was  high  and  important.  The  reservoir 
in  the  center  must  have  Ix'en  rather  a  dangerous  ornament,  but 
the  center  of  the  hall  was  like  the  grass-plot  of  a  college,  and  in- 
terdicted to  the  pafisers  to  and  fro,  who  round  ample  space  in  the 
margin.  Right  opposite  the  entrance,  at  the  otner  end  of  the 
haU,  was  an  apartment  {taXMnum),  in  which  the  pavement  wae 
usually  adorned  with  rich  moeaice,  and  the  wallt  covered  with 
elaborate  imintings. 

Here  were  usually  kept  the  records  of  the  family,  or  those  of 
any  public  office  that  had  been  filled  by  the  owner;  on  one  side  of 
thi?  saloon,  if  wq  may  so  ^sH  it,  was  often  a  dinlng-roomj  or 


\  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEH,  18 

tricthiium;  on  the  other  side,  perhaps,  what  we  should  now  term 
a  cabinet  of  gems,  containing  whatever  curiosities  were  deemed 
most  rare  and  costly;  and  invariably  a  small  passage  for  the  slaves 
to  cross  to  the  further  parts  of  the  house,  without  passing  the  apart- 
ments thus  mentioned.  These  rooms  all  opened  on  a  square  or 
oblong  colonnade,  technically  termed  peristyle.  If  the  house  was 
Bmall,  its  boundary  ceased  with  this  colonnade;  and  in  that  case  its 
center,  however  diminutive,  was  ordinarily  appropriated  to  the 
purpose  of  a  garden,  and  adorned  with  vases  of  flowers,  placed 
upon  pedestals,  while,  under  the  colonnade,  on  the  right  and  left, 
were  doors,  admitting  to  bed-rooms,*  to  a  second  triclinium,  or 
eating  room  (for  the  ancients  generally  appropriated  tvyo  rooms 
at  least  to  that  purpose,  one  for  summer  and  one  for  winter— <)r, 
perhaps,  one  for  ordinary,  the  other  for  festive  occasions);  and  if 
the  owner  affected  letters,  a  cabinet,  dignified  by  the  name  of 
library — for  a  very  small  room  was  sufficient  to  contain  the  few 
rolls  of  papyrus  which  the  ancients  deemed  a  notable  collection 
of  books. 

At  the  end  of  the  peristyle  was  generally  the  kitchen.  Suppos- 
ing the  house  was  large,  it  did  not  end  with  the  peristyle,  and  the 
center  thereof  was  not  in  that  case  a  garden,  but  might  be,  per- 
haps, adorned  with  a  fountain,  or  basin  for  fish;  and  at  its  end, 
exactly  opposite  to  the  taUinum,  was  generally  another  eating- 
room,  on  either  side  of  which  were  bed-rooms,  and,  perhaps,  a 
picture  saloon,  or  pinacotheca.  These  apartments  communicated 
again  with  a  square  or  oblong  space,  usually  adorned  on  three 
sides  with  a  colonnade  Uke  the  peristyle,  and  very  much  re- 
sembling the  peristyle,  only  usually  longer.  This  was  the  proper 
viridarium,  or  garden,  being  commonly  adorned  with  a  f  oimtain, 
or  statues,  and  a  profusion  of  gay  flowers;  at  its  extreme  end 
was  the  gardener's  house;  on  either  side,  beneath  the  colonnade, 
were  sometimes,  if  the  size  of  the  family  required  it,  additional 
rooms. 

At  Pompeii,  a  second  or  third  story  was  rarely  of  importance, 
being  built  only  above  a  small  part  of  the  house,  and  containing 
rooms  for  the  slaves;  differing  in  this  respect  from  the  more 
magnificent  edifices  of  Rome,  which  generally  contamed  the 
principal  eatmg-room  (or  coenaciUuni)  on  the  second  floor. 
The  apartments  themselves  were  ordinarily  of  small  size;  for  in 
those  delightful  climes  they  received  any  extraordmary  nunaber 
of  visitors  in  the  peristyle  (or  portico),  the  hall,  or  the  garden; 
and  even  their  banquet-rooms,  however  elaborately  adorned  and 
carefully  selected  in  point  of  aspect,  were  of  diminutive  propor- 
tions; for  the  intellectual  ancients,  being  fond  of  society,  not  of 
crowds,  rarely  feasted  more  than  nine  at  a  time,  so  that  large 
dinner-rooms  were  not  so  necessary  with  them  as  with  us.f 

But  the  suite  of  rooms  seen  at  once  from  the  entrance,  niust 
have  had  a  very  imposing  effect:  you  beheld  at  once  the  hall  rich- 

*  The  Romans  had  bedrooms  appropriated  not  only  to  the  sleep  of  night, 
but  also  to  the  day  siesta  {cublcule  diurna). 

+  When  they  entertained  very  large  parties,  the  feast  was  usually 
ferved  in  the  haXL 


14  TEE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIT, 

ly  paved  and  painted— the  t(ibllnu)n—tho  pinceful  peristyle,  and 
(if  the  house  exteuded  farther)  the  opposite  haucjuet-rooDi  and 
the  garden,  which  closed  the  view  with  some  gushing  fount  or 
marble  statue. 

The  reader  will  now  have  a  tolerable  notion  of  Pompeian  houses, 
which  resembled  in  some  respects  the  Grecian,  but  mostly  the 
Roman  fashion  of  domestic  architecture.  In  almost  every  house 
there  is  some  difference  in  detail  from  the  rest,  but  the  priuciijal 
outline  is  the  same  iii  all. 

In  all  you  find  the  hall,  the  taWinum,  and  the  peristyle, 
communicating  with  each  other;  in  all  you  find  the  walls  ricldy 
painted;  and  in  all  the  evidence  of  a  people  ft)nd  of  the  retiuing 
elegancies  of  life.  The  pm-ity  of  the  taste  of  the  Pomj^eians  in 
decoration  is,  however,  questionable:  they  were  fond  of  the  gaud- 
iest colors,  of  fantastic  designs;  they  often  painted  tlie  lower 
Jialf  of  their  columns  bright  red,  leaving  the  rest  uucolored;  and 
where  the  garden  was  small,  its  wall  was  frequently  tinted  to  de- 
ceive the  eye  as  to  its  extent,  imitating  trees,  birds,  temples, 
etc.,  in  perspective  — a  meretricious  delusion  wliich  the  graceful 
pedantry  of  Pliny  himself  adopted,  with  pride  in  its  ingenuity. 

But  the  house  of  Glaucus  was  at  once  one  of  the  smallest, and  yet 
the  most  adorned  and  finished  of  all  the  private  mansions  of 
Pompeii  I  it  would  be  a  model  at  this  day  for  the  house  of 
**  a  single  man  inMayfair" — the  envy  and  despair  of  the  ccelibian 
purchasers  of  buhl  and  marquetry. 

You  enter  by  a  long  and  narrow  vestibule,  on  the  floor  of 
which  is  the  image  of  a  dog  in  mosaic,  with  the  well-known 
*'  Cave  canem,'^  or  '*  Beware  the  dog."  On  either  side  is  a  cham- 
ber of  some  size;  for  the  interior  part  of  the  house  not  beiug 
large  enough  to  contain  the  tw^o  great  divisions  of  private  and 
public  apartments,  these  two  rooms  were  set  apart  for  the  re- 
ception of  visitors  who  neither  by  rank  nor  familiarity  were 
entitled  to  admission  in  the  penetralia  of  tlie  mansion. 

Advancing  up  the  vestibule  you  enter  an  atrium,  that  when 
first  discovered  w^as  rich  in  paintings,  which,  in  point  of  expres~ 
sion,  w^ould  scarcely  disgrace  a  Rafaele.  You  may  see  them  now 
transplanted  to  the  Neapolitan  Museum;  they  are  still  the  ad- 
miration of  connoisseurs — they  depict  the  parting  of  Achilles 
and  Briseis.  Who  docs  not  acknowledge  tue  force,  the  vigor, 
the  beauty,  employed  in  delineating  the  forms  and  faces  of  Achil- 
les and  the  immortal  slave? 

On  one  aide  tlie  atrium,  a  small  staircase  admitted  to  the 
apartments  for  the  slaves  on  the  second  floor;  there  also  were 
two  or  three  small  bed-rooms,  the  walls  of  which  ix)rtrayed  the 
rape  of  Europa,  the  battle  of  the  Amazons,  etc. 

You  now  enter  the  tablinurn,  across  which,  at  either  end, 
hung  rich  draperies  of  Tyrian  purnle,  half  withdrawn.  On  the 
walls  was  depicted  a  poet  reading  his  verses  to  his  friends;  and 
in  the  pavement  was  inserted  a  small  and  most  exquisite  mosaic, 
tvpical  of  the  instructions  given  by  the  director  or  the  stage  to 
his  comedians. 

You  passed  through  this  saloon  and  entered  the  peristyle;  and 
here  (as  I  have  before  said,  was  usually  the  caee  with  the  smaller 


\  TEE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  1% 

houses  of  Pompeii)  the  mansion  ended.  From  each  of  the  seen 
columns  that  adorned  this  court  hung  festoons  of  garlands;  the 
center,  supplying  the  place  of  a  gai'den,  bloomed  with  the  rarest 
flowers  placed  in  vases  of  white  marble.  At  the  left  hand  of  this 
small  garden  was  a  diminutive  fane,  resembling  one  of  those 
email  chapels  placed  at  the  side  of  roads  in  Catholic  countries, 
and  dedicated  to  the  Penates;  before  it  stood  a  bronze  kipod;  to 
the  left  of  the  colonnade  were  two  small  cubicula,  orbed-rooms; 
to  the  right  was  the  triclinium,  in  which  the  guests  were  now  as- 
sembled. 

This  room  is  usually  termed  by  the  antiquaries  of  Naples, 
"  The  Chamber  of  Leda;"  and  in  the  beautiful  work  of  Sir  Will- 
iam Gell,  the  reader  will  find  an  engraving  from  that  most  deli- 
cate and  graceful  painting  of  Leda  presenting  her  new-born  to 
her  husband,  from  which  the  room  derives  its  name.  This 
charming  apartment  opens  upon  the  fragrant  garden.  Round 
the  table  of  citrean  wood,  highly  polished  and  dehcately  wrought 
with  silver  arabesques,  were  placed  the  three  couches,  which 
were  yet  more  common  at  Pompeii  than  the  semicircular  seat 
that  had  grown  lately  into  fashion  at  Rome;  and  on  these  couches 
of  bronze,  studded  with  richer  metals,  were  laid  thick  quiltings 
covered  with  elaborate  broidery,  and  yielding  luxuriously  to  the 
pressure. 

*'  Well,  I  must  own,"  said  the  sedile  Pansa,  ''  that  your  house, 
though  scarcely  larger  than  a  case  for  one's  fibula,  is  a  gem  of 
its  kmd.  How  beautifully  painted  is  that  parting  of  Achilles 
and  Briseis! — what  a  style! — what  heads — what  a — -hem!" 

"  Praise  from  Pansa  is  indeed  valuable  on  such  subjects,"  said 
Clodius,  gravely.  *'  Why,  the  paintings  on  /r/s  walls!— Ah!  there 
is,  indeed,  the  hand  of  a  Zeuxis!" 

"You  flatter  me,  my  Clodius;  indeed  you  do;"  quoth  theaedile, 
who  was  celebrated  through  Pompeii  for  having  the  worst  paint- 
ings in  the  world;  for  he  was  patriotic,  and  patronized  none  but 
Pompeians.  *'You  flatter  me;  but  there  is  something  pretty— 
uEdepol,  yes — in  the  colors,  to  say  nothing  of  the  design;— and 
then,  for  the  kitchen,  my  friends— ah!  that  was  all  my  fancy." 

'♦What  is  the  design?"  said  Glaucus.  "I  have  not  yet  seen 
your  kitchen,  though  I  have  often  witnessed  the  excellence  of  its 
cbeer." 

"A  cook,  my  Athenian — a  cook  sacrificing  the  trophies  of  his 
skill  on  the  altar  of  Vesta,  with  a  beautiful  mursena  (taken  from 
the  life)  on  a  spit  at  a  distance;  there  is  some  invention  there!' 

At  that  Instant  the  slaves  appeared,  bearing  a  tray  covered  with 
the  first  preparative  initia  of  the  feast.  Amid  delicious  figs,  fresh 
herbs  sti-ewed  with  snow,  anchovies,  and  eggs,  were  ranged  small 
cups  of  diluted  wine  sparingly  mixed  with  honey.  As  these  were 
placed  on  the  table,  young  slaves  bore  round  to  each  of  the  five 
guests  (for  there  were  no  more)  tlie  silv^er  basin  of  perfumed 
water,  and  napkins  edged  with  a  purple  fringe.  But  the  eedile 
ostentatiously  drew  forth  his  own  napkin,  which  was  not,  indeed, 
of  so  fijie  a  linen,  but  in  which  the  fringe  was  twice  as  broad, 
and  wiped  his  hands  with  the  parade  of  a  man  who  felt  he  was 
calling  for  admiration. 


li  THE  LAST  DA  Y8  OP  POMPEIL 

"A  pplendid  nappa,  that  of  yours,**  said  Clodius;  "why,  the 
fringe  is  as  broad  as  a  girdle  I" 

♦*  A  trifle,  my  Clodius:  a  trifle!  They  tell  me  that  this  stripe  is 
the  latest  fashion  at  Rome;  but  Glaucus  attends  to  "these  things 
more  than  I." 

'*Be  propitious,  O  Baochusl'*  said  Glaucus,  inclining  reveren- 
tially to  a  beautiful  image  of  the  god  placed  in  the  center  of  the 
table,  at  the  comers  of  which  stood  the  Lares  and  tlie  salt-holders. 
The  guests  followed  the  nrayer,  and  then  sprinkling  the  wine  on 
the  table,  they  performed  the  wonted  libation. 

This  over,  the  convivalists  reclined  themselves  on  the  couclies, 
and  the  business  of  the  hour  commenced. 

"May  this  cupbemylastl"  said  the  young  Sallust,  as  the  table, 
cleared  of  its  first  stimulants,  was  now  loaded  with  tlie  substan- 
tial part  of  the  entei'tainment,  and  the  ministering  slave  poured 
forth  to  him  a  brimming  cyathus — *'  May  this  cup  be  my  last,  but 
it  is  the  best  wine  I  have  drank  at  Pompeii  1" 

"  Bring  hither  the  amphora,"  said  Glaucus,  **  and  read  its  date 
and  character.'* 

The  slave  hastened  to  inform  the  party  that  the  scroll  fasten- 
ed to  the  cork  betokened  its  birth  from  Chios,  and  its  age  a  ripe 
fifty  years. 

**  How  deliciously  the  snow  has  cooled  it  I"  said  Pansa.  **  It  is 
just  enough.'* 

*'  It  is  like  the  experience  of  a  man  who  has  cooled  his  pleas- 
ures sufliciently  to  give  them  a  double  zest,"  exclaimed  Sallust. 

*'  It  is  like  a  woman's  *  No,'  added  Glaucus;  "  it  cools,  but  to 
inflame  the  more." 

"  When  is  our  next  wild-beast  fight?"  said  Clodius  to  Pansa. 

*'It  stands  fixed  for  the  ninth  ide  of  August,"  answered  Pan- 
sa; "on  the  dav  after  the  Vulcanalia;  we  have  a  most  lovely 
young  lion  for  the  occasion." 

*'  Whom  shall  we  get  for  him  to  eat?"  asked  Clodius.  **  Alasf 
there  is  a  great  scarcity  of  criminals.  You  must  positively  find 
some  innocent  or  other  to  condemn  to  the  lion,  Pansa!" 

"Indeed  I  have  thought  very  seriously  about  it  of  late,"  replied 
the  aedile,  gravely.  "It  was  a  most  infamous  law  that  which 
forbade  us  to  send  our  own  slaves  to  the  wild  beasts.  Not  to  let 
us  do  what  we  like  with  our  own,  that's  what  I  call  an  infringe- 
ment on  property  itself." 

"  Not  so  in  tlie  good  old  days  of  the  Republic,"  sighed  Sallust. 

**  And  then  this  pretended  mercy  to  the  slaves  is  sucli  a  disap- 
pointment to  the  poor  people.  How  they  do  love  to  see  a  good 
tough  battle  between  a  man  and  a  lion;  and  all  this  innocent 
pleasure  they  may  lose  (if  the  gods  don't  send  us  a  good  criminal 
soon)  from  tliis  cursed  law!" 

"What  can  be  worse  policy,"  said  Clodius.  sententiously, 
*'than  to  interfere  with  the  manly  amusements  of  the  people?" 

"Well,  thank  Jupiter  and  the  Fates!  we  have  no  Nero  at  pres- 
ent," said  Sallust. 

"  He  was  indeed  a  tyrant;  Ke  shut  up  our  amphitheater  for  ten 
years.*' 

**  I  wonder  it  did  not  create  a  rebellion,'*  said  Sallust. 


THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII,  11 

**  It  very  nearly  did,"  returned  Pansa,  with  his  mouth  full  of 
wild  boar. 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted  for  a  moment  by  a 
flourish  of  flutes,  and  two  slaves  entered  with  a  single  dish. 

*' Ahl  what  delicacy  hast  thou  in  store  for  us  now,  my  Glau- 
cus?"  cried  young  SaUust,  with  sparkUng  eyes. 

Sallust  was  only  twenty-four,  but  he  had  no  pleasure  in  life 
like  eating — ^perhaps  he  had  exhausted  all  the  others;  yet  had  he 
Bome  talent,  and  an  excellent  heart — as  far  as  it  went. 

**Iknow  its  face,  by  Pollux  I"  cried  Pansa.  "  It  is  an  Am- 
bracian  Kid.  Hoi  [snapping  his  fingers,  a  usual  signal  to  the 
slaves]  we  must  prepare  a  new  libation  in  honor  to  the  new- 
comer." 

*'  I  had  hoped,"  said  Glaucus,  in  a  melancholy  tone,  "  to  have 
procured  you  some  oysters  from  Britain;  but  the  winds  that 
were  so  cruel  to  Caesar  have  forbid  us  the  oysters." 

"Are  they  in  truth  so  delicious?"  asked  Lepidus,  loosening  to  a 
yet  more  luxurious  ease  his  ungirdled  tunic. 

"  Why,  in  truth,  I  suspect  it  is  the  distance  that  gives  the 
flavor;  they  want  the  richness  of  the  Brundusium  oyster.  But 
at  Rome,  no  supper  is  complete  without  them." 

*'  The  poor  Britons  I  There  is  some  good  in  them  after  all,"  said 
Sallust.     "They  produce  an  oyster  1" 

"  I  wish  they  would  produce  us  a  gladiator,"  said  the  sedile, 
whose  provident  mind  was  musing  over  the  wants  of  the 
amphitheater. 

"By  Pallas  I"  cried  Glaucus,  as  his  favorite  slave  crowned  his 
streaming  locks  with  a  new  chaplet,  "I  love  these  wild 
spectacles  well  enough  when  beast  fights  beast;  but  when  a  man, 
one  with  bones  and  blood  like  ours,  is  coldly  put  on  the  arena, 
and  torn  limb  from  limb,  the  interest  is  too  horrid:  I  sicken — I 
gasp  for  breath — I  long  to  rush  and  defend  bim.  The  yells  of 
the  populace  seem  to  be  more  dire  than  the  voices  of  the  Furies 
chasing  Orestes.  I  rejoice  that  there  is  so  little  chance  of  that 
bloody  exhibition  for  our  next  show  I" 

The  aedile  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  young  Sallust,  who 
was  thought  the  best  natured  man  in  Pompeii,  stared  in  surprise. 
The  graceful  Lepidus,  who  rarely  spoke  for  fear  of  disturbing  his 
features,  ejaculated  "Herclel"  The  parasite  Clodius  muttered 
"JEdepoll"  and  the  sixth  banqueter,  who  was  the  umbra  of 
riodius,  and  whose  duty  it  was  to  echo  his  richer  friend,  when 
^e  could  not  praise  him — ^the  parasite  of  a  parasite — ^muttered 
also"JEdepoII" 

•♦Well,  you  Italians  are  used  to  these  spectacles;  we  Greeks 
are  more  merciful.  Ah,  shade  of  Pindar  I — the  rapture  of  a  true 
Grecian  game — the  emulation  of  man  against  man — ^the  gen^ous 
strife— the  half -mournful  triumph— so  proud  to  contend  with  a 
noble  foe,  so  sad  to  see  him  overcome  I  But  ye  understand  me 
not." 

"  The  kid  is  excellent,"  said  Sallust.  The  slave,  whose  duty  i* 
was  to  carve,  and  who  valued  hhiiself  on  his  science,  had  just 
performed  that  o^ce  on  the  kid  to  the  sound  of  musk),  his  knif o 


It  THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII, 

keeping  time,  beginning  -with  a  low  tenor  and  accomplishing  the 
arduous  feat  amid  a  magnificent  diapason. 

**  Your  cook  is,  of  course,  from  Sicily?*'  Baid  Pansa. 

"Yes,  of  Syracuse." 

"  I  will  play  you  for  him,"  said  Clodius.  "  "We  will  have  a 
game  between  tlie  courses." 

•*  Better  that  sort  of  game,  certainly,  than  a  beast  fight;  but  J 
cannot  stake  my  SicUian — ^you  have  nothing  so  precious  to  stake 
me  in  return. * 

"  My  Phillida — my  beautiful  dancing- girll" 

"  I  never  buy  women,"  said  the  Greek,  carelessly  re-arranging 
his  chaplet. 

The  musicians  who  were  stationed  in  the  portico  without,  had 
commenced  their  office  witli  tlie  kid;  they  now  directed  the 
melody  into  a  more  soft,  a  more  gay,  yet  it  may  be  a  more  intel- 
lectual strain;  and  they  chanted  that  soug  of  Horace  beginuing, 
**  Persicos  odi,^^  etc.,  so  impossible  to  translate;  and  which  they 
imagined  applicable  to  a  feast  that,  effeminate  as  it  seems  to  us, 
was  simple  enough  for  the  gorgeous  revelry  of  the  time.  We  are 
witnessing  the  domestic,  and  not  the  princely  feast— the  enter- 
tainment of  a  gentleman,  not  an  emperor  or  a  senator. 

"Ah,  good  old  Horace!"  said  Sallust,  compassionately;  "he 
sang  well  of  feasts  and  girls,  but  not  like  our  modern  poets." 

•'  The  immortal  Fulvius,  for  instance,"  said  Clodius. 

**  Ah,  Fulvius  the  immortal!"  said  the  umbra. 

"  And  Spuraena;  and  Caius  Mutius,  who  wrote  three  epics  in  a 
year — could  Horace  do  that,  or  Virgil  either?"  said  L.epi<lus. 
"  Tliose  old  poets  all  fell  into  the  mistake  of  copying  sculj^tuie 
instead  of  painting.  Simplicity  and  repose — that  was  their 
notion;  but  we  modems  have  fire,  and  passion — we  never  sleep, 
we  imitate  the  colors  of  painting,  its  life,  and  its  action.  Im- 
mortal Fulvius!" 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Sallust,  "  have  you  ever  seen  the  new  ode 
by  Spuraena,  in  honor  of  our  Egyptian  Isis?  It  is  magnificent — 
the  true  religious  fervor." 

"  Isis  soonis  a  favorite  divinity  at  Pompeii,"  said  Glaucus. 

"  Yes."  said  Pansa,  "she  is  exceedingly  in  repute  just  at  this 
moment ;  her  statue  has  been  uttering  the  most  remarkable 
oracles.  I  am  not  superstitious,  but  I  must  confess  that  she  has 
more  than  once  assisted  me  materially  in  my  magistracy  with  her 
advice.  Her  priests  are  so  pious,  too,  none  of  your  gay,  none  of 
your  proud  ministers  of  Jupiter  and  fortune:  they  walk  barefoot, 
eat  no  meat,  and  pass  the  greater  part  of  the  night  in  solitary 
devotion!" 

"  An  example  to  our  other  priesthoods,  indeedl — Jupiter's 
temple  wants  reforming  sadly,"  said  Lepidus,  who  was  a  great 
reformer  for  all  but  himself. 

"They  say  that  Arbaces,  the  Egyptian,  has  im]mrted  some 
most  solemn  mysteries  to  the  priests  of  Isis,"  observed  Sallust. 
"  He  boasts  his  descent  from  the  race  of  Rameses,  and  declares 
that  in  his  famUy  the  secrets  of  remotest  amtiquity  are 
kreasured.'' 

*'  He  certainly  possesses  the  gift  of  the  evil  eje,"  said  Clodiua 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  PQMPEU.  1» 

*•  If  I  ever  come  upon  that  Medusa  front  without  the  previous 
charm,  I  am  sure  to  lose  a  favorite  horse,  or  throw  the  canes'^ 
nine  times  running.'' 

"  The  last  would  be  indeed  a  miracle!"  said  Sallust  gravely. 

"  How  mean  you,  Sallust?"  returned  the  gamester  with  a  flushed 
brow. 

"  I  mean  what  you  would  leave  me  if  I  played  often  with  you; 
and  that  is — nothing." 
Clodius  answered  only  by  a  smile  of  disdain. 
"  If  Arbaces  were  not  so  rich,"  said  Pansa,  with  a  stately  air. 
*'  I  should  stretch  my  authority  a  little  and  inquire  into  the  truth 
of  the  report  which  calls  him  an  astrologer  and  a  sorcerer. 
Agrippa,  when  sedile  of  Rome,  banished  all  such  terrible  citizens. 
But  a  rich  man — it  is  the  duty  of  an  aedile  to  protect  the 
rich!" 

"What  think  you  of  this  new  sect,  which  I  am  told  has  even  a 
few  proselytes  in  Pompeii,  these  followers  of  the  Hebrew  God — 
Christus." 

*'  Oh,  mere  speculative  visionaries,"  said  Clodius;  *'they  have 
not  a  single  gentleman  among  them;  their  proselytes  are  poor, 
insignificant,  ignorant  people!'* 

"Who  ought,  however,  to  be  crucified  for  their  blasphemy," 
said  Pansa,  with  vehemence;  "they  deny  Venus  and  Jove! 
Nazarene  is  but  another  name  for  atheist.  Let  me  catch  them, 
that's  all." 

The  second  course  was  gone — the  feasters  fell  back  on  their 
couches — there  was  a  pause  while  they  hstened  to  the  soft  voices 
of  the  South,  and  the  music  of  the  Arcadian  reed.  Glaucus  was 
the  most  wrapt  and  the  least  inclined  to  break  the  silence,  but 
Clodius  began  already  to  think  they  had  wasted  time. 

"  Bene  vobis!  (your  health)  my  Glaucus,''  said  he,  quaffing  a  cup 
to  each  letter  of  the  Greek's  name,  with  the  ease  of  a  practiced 
drinker. 

"Will  you  not  be  avenged  on  your  ill-fortune  of  yesterday? 
See,  the  dice  court  us." 

"  As  you  wUl,"  said  Glaucus. 

"  The  dice  in  summer,  and  I  an  sedile,"  said  Pansa  magisterially; 
"  it  is  against  all  law." 

"  Not  in  your  presence,  grave  Pansa,"  returned  Clodius,  rattlinjg 
the  dice  in  a  long  box;  "  your  presence  restrains  all  license;  it 
is  not  the  thing,  but  the  excess  of  the  thing  that  hurts." 
"  What  wisdom!"  muttered  the  umbra. 
"  Well,  I  will  look  another  way,"  said  the  sedile. 
"  Not  yet,  good  Pansa;  let  us  wait  till  we  have  supped,"  said 
Glaucus. 

Clodius  reluctantly  yielded,  conceahng  his  vexation  with  a 
yawn. 

"He  gapes  to  devour  the  gold,"  whispered  Lepidus  to  Sallust, 
in  a  quotation  from  the  Aulularia.  of  Plautus. 

"  Ahl  how  well  1  know  these  polypi,  who  hold  all  they  touch,** 
answered  Sallust,  in  the  same  tone,  and  out  of  the  same  play. 

i^iu  'm 

*  Canes  on  Caniculoe^  the  lowest  throw  at  dice. 


n  THK  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEH. 

The  third  course  consisting  of  a  variety  of  fruits,  pistachio 
nuts,  sweetmeats,  tarts  and  confectionery  tortured  into  a  thou- 
eand  fantastic  and  airy  sliapes,  was  now  placed  upon  the  table; 
and  the  ministri,  or  attendants,  also  set  there  the  wine  (which 
had  hitherto  been  handed  round  to  the  guests)  in  large  ju^  of 
glass,  each  bearing  upon  it  the  scliedule  of  its  age  and  quality. 

"Taste  this  Lesbian,  my  Pansa,"  saidSallust;  "  it  is  excellent." 

**  It  is  not  very  old,"  said  Glaucus,  "  but  it  has  been  made  pre- 
cocious, like  ourselves,  by  being  put  to  the  fire:  the  wine  to  the 
flames  of  Vulcan — we  to  those  of  his  wife — to  whose  honor  I 
pour  this  cup. " 

"It  is  delicate,"  said  Pansa,  "but  there  is  perhaps  the  least 
particle  too  much  resin  in  its  flavor." 

"  What  a  beautiful  cup!"  cried  Clodius,  taking  up  one  of  trans- 
parent crystal,  the  handles  of  which  were  wrought  with  gems, 
and  twisted  in  the  shape  of  serpents,  the  favorite  fashion  of 
Ponapeii. 
_!'  This  ring,"  said  Glaucus,  taking  a  costly  jewel  from  the  first 
joint  of  his  finger,  and  hanging  it  on  the  handle,  gives  it  a  richer 
show,  and  renders  it  less  unworthy  of  thy  acceptance  my  Clodius, 
on  whom  may  the  gods  bestow  health  and  fortune,  long  and  oft 
to  crown  it  to  the  brim!" 

"  You  are  too  generous,  Glaucus,"  said  the  gamester,  handing 
the  cup  to  his  slave;  "  but  your  love  gives  it  a  double  value." 

"This  cup  to  the  Graces!"  said  Pansa,  and  he  thrice  emptied 
his  calix.    The  guests  followed  his  example. 

"We  have  appointed  no  director  to  the  feast,"  cried  Sallust. 

"Let  us  throw  for  him,  then,"  said  Clodius,  rattling  the  dice- 
box. 

"Nay,"  cried  Glaucus,  "no  cold  and  trite  director  for  us;  no 
dictator  of  the  banquet;  no  rex  convivii.  Have  not  the  Romans 
ewom  never  to  obey  a  king?  Shall  we  be  less  free  than  your  an- 
cestors? Ho!  musicians,  let  us  have  the  song  I  composed  the 
other  night:  it  was  a  verse  on  this  subject,  *  The  Bacchi  hymn 
of  the  Hours.' " 

The  musicians  struck  their  instruments  to  a  wild  Ionic  air, 
while  the  youngest  voices  in  the  band  chanted  forth,  in  Greek 
words,  as  numbers,  the  following  strain: 

THE  EVENING  HYMN  OF  THE  HOURS. 
I. 

Through  the  summer  day,  through  the  weary  day, 

We  have  ^jlided  long; 
Ere  we  speed  to  the  Ni^lit  through  her  portals  gnigr» 

Hail  us  with  song  ! 

With  song,  with  song. 
With  a  bright  and  joyous  song: 

Such  as  the  Cretan  maid, 

While  the  twilight  made  her  bolder. 
Woke,  high  through  the  ivy  shade, 

When  the  wine-god  firyt  consoled  her. 
Trom  the  hushed  low-breathing  skie«, 

HalfHshut  look'd  their  starry  eyea^ 


TSE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII, 

And  all  around, 
"With  a  loving  sound, 
The  ^gean  waves  are  creeping; 
Ob  her  lap  lay  the  lynx's  head; 
Wild  thyme  was  her  bridal  bed; 
And  aye  through  each  tiny  space, 
In  the  green  vine's  green  embrace, 
The  Fauns  were  slying  peeping: 

The  Fauns,  the  prying  Fauns— 
The  arch,  the  laughing  Fauns— 
The  Fauns  were  slyly  peeping  1 


Flagging  and  faint  are  we, 

With  our  ceaseless  flight, 
And  dull  shall  our  journey  be 

Through  the  realm  of  night. 
Bathe  us,  0  bathe  our  weary  wings, 
In  the  purple  wave  as  it  freshly  springs 

To  your  cups  from  the  fount  of  light — 
From  the  fount  of  light— from  the  fount  of  light, 
For  there,  when  the  sun  has  gone  down  In  night, 

There  in  the  bowl  we  find  him. 
The  grape  is  the  well  of  that  summer  sun. 
Or  rather  the  stream  that  he  gazed  upon, 
Till  he  left  in  truth,  like  the  Thespian  youth. 
His  soul,  as  he  gazed,  behind  him. 


A  cup  to  Jove,  and  a  cup  to  Love, 

And  a  cup  to  the  son  of  Maia; 
And  honor  with  three,  the  band  zone-free. 

The  band  of  the  bright  Aglaia, 
But  since  every  bud  in  the  wreath  of  pleasure 

Ye  owe  to  the  sister  Hours, 
No  stinted  cups,  in  a  formal  measure. 

The  Bromian  law  makes  ours. 
He  honors  us  who  give  us  most. 
And  boasts,  with  a  Bacchanal's  honest  boast, 

He  never  will  count  the  treasure. 
Fastly  we  fleet,  then  seize  our  wings. 
And  plunge  us  deep  in  the  sparkling  streams; 
And  aye,  as  we  rise  with  a  dripping  plume, 
We'll  scatter  the  spray  round  the  garland's  bloom 

We  glow — we  glow. 
Behold,  as  the  girls  of  the  Eastern  wave 
Bore  once  with  a  shout  to  their  crystal  cave 

The  prize  of  the  Mysian  Hylas, 
Even  so — even  so. 
We  have  caught  the  young  god  in  our  warm  embrace, 
We  hurry  him  on  in  our  laughing  race; 
We  hurry  him  on,  with  a  whoop  and  song. 
The  cloudy  rivers  of  night  along — 
Ho,  ho  I — we  have  caught  thee,  Psilas  I 

The  gu^ts  applauded  loudly.    When  the  poet  is  your  host  hifl 
verses  are  sure  to  charm. 
"  Thoroughly  Greek,"  said  Lepidus;  **  the  wildnea^  forc^  and 


ie  TBE  LAST  DA  78  OF  POMPEH. 

energy  of  that  tongue,  it  is  impossible  to  imitate  in  the  Roman 
poetry." 

**  It  is,  indeed,  a  great  contrast."  said  Clodius,  ironically  at 
heart,  though  not  in  appearance,  "to  the  old-fashioned  and  tame 
simpHcity  of  that  ode  of  Horace  which  we  heard  before.  The  air 
is  beautifully  Ionic;  the  word  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  toast — com- 
panions, I  give  you  the  beautiful  lone." 

"  lone! — the  name  is  Greek,"  said  Glaucus,  in  a  soft  voice.  "I 
drink  the  health  with  delight.     But  who  is  lone?" 

*'  Ah!  you  have  just  come  to  Pompeii,  or  you  would  deserve 
ostracism  for  your  ignorance,"  said  Lepidus,  conceitedly;  "not 
to  know  lone,  is  not  to  know  the  chief  charm  of  our  city." 

"She  is  of  the  most  rare  beauty,"  said  Pansa;  "and  what  a 
voice!" 

"She  can  feed  only  on  nightingales'  tongues." said  Clodius. 

"  Nightingales'  tongues — beauti%l  thought!"  sighed  the  umbra. 

"  Enlighten  me,  I  beseech  you,'    aid  Glaucus. 

"Know  then "  began  Lepidus. 

"  Let  me  speak,"  cried  Clodius;  "  you  drawl  out  your  words 
as  if  you  spoke  tortoises." 

*  *  And  you  speak  stones,"  muttered  the  coxcomb  to  himself,  as 
he  fell  back  disdainfully  on  his  couch. 

"  Know  then,  my  Glaucus,"  said  Clodius,  "  that  lone  is  a 
stranger  who  has  but  lately  come  to  Pompeii.  She  sings  like 
Sappho,  and  her  songs  are  her  own  composing;  and  as  for  the 
tibia,  and  the  cithara,  and  the  lyre,  I  know  not  in  which  she 
Saost  outdoes  the  Muj^es.  Her  beauty  is  most  dazzling.  Her 
house  is  perfect;  such  taste — such  gems — such  bronzes!  She  is 
rich,  and  generous  as  she  is  rich." 

"  Her  lovers,  of  course,"  said  Glaucus,  "  take  care  that  she  does 
not  starve;  and  money  lightly  won  is  always  lavishly  spent." 

"  Her  lovers — ah,  there  is  the  enigma!  lone  has  but  one  vice 
— she  is  chaste.  She  has  all  Pompeii  at  her  feet,  and  she  has  no 
lovers;  she  will  not  even  marry." 

"  No  lovers!"  echoed  Glaucus. 

"No;  she  has  the  soul  of  Vesta,  with  the  girdle  of  Venus.** 

"  What  refined  expressions!"  said  the  umbra. 

"  A  miracle!"  cried  Glaucus.     "  Can  we  not  see  her?" 

"I  will  take  you  there  this  evening,"  said  Clodius;  "mean- 
while"— added  he,  once  more  rattling  the  dice. 

"lam  yours,"  saiJ  the  complaisant  Glaucus.  "Pansa,  turn 
your  face!" 

Lepidus  and  Sallust  played  at  odd  and  even;  and  the  umbra 
looked  on,  while  Glaucus  and  Clodius  became  gradually  absorbed 
in  the  chances  of  the  dice. 

"By  PoHux!"  cried  Glaucus,  "this  is  the  second  time  I  have 
thrown  the  caniculae  "  (the  lowest  throw). 

"  Now,  Venus  befriend  me!  "  said  Clodius,  rattling  the  box  for 
several  moments.  "  O  Alma  Venus — it  is  Venus  herself  !  "  as  he 
threw  the  highest  cast,  named  from  that  goddess — whom  he  who 
wins  money,  indeed,  usually  propitiates! 

"Venus  is  ungrateful  to  me,"  said  Glaucus,  gayly;  "  I  have 
always  sacrificed  on  her  altar!'' 


THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII,  23 

"  He  who  plays  with  Clodius,"  whispered  Lepidus,  **  will  socm, 
like  Plautus's  Curculio,  put  his  pallium  for  the  stakes." 

*'  Poor  Glaucus — he  is  as  blind  as  fortune  herself,"  replied  Sal- 
Just  in  the  same  tone. 

"  I  will  play  no  more,"  said  Glaucus;  "  I  have  lost  thirty  se»- 
tertia." 

"  I  am  sorry ,"  began  Clodius. 

*'  Amiable  man  I  "  groaned  the  umbra. 

*'Not  at  all  I "  exclaimed  Glaucus;  "the  pleasure  I  take  in 
your  gain  compensates  the  pain  of  my  loss." 

The  conversation  now  grew  general  and  animated;  the  wine 
circulated  more  freely;  and  lone  once  more  became  the  subje<^t 
of  eulogy  to  the  guests  of  Glaucus. 

"  Instead  of  out  watching  the  stars,  let  us  visit  one  at  whose 
beauty  the  stars  grow  pale,"  said  Lepidus. 

Clodius,  who  saw  no  chance  of  renewing  the  dice,  seconded 
the  proposal;  and  Glaucus,  though  he  civilly  pressed  his  guests 
to  continue  the  banquet,  could  not  but  let  them  see  that  his  cur- 
iosity had  been  excited  by  the  praise  of  lone:  they  therefore  re- 
solved to  adjourn  (all,  at  least,  but  Pansa  and  the  umbra)  to  the 
house  of  the  fair  Greek.  They  drank,  therefore,  the  health  of 
Glaucus  and  of  Titus — they  performed  their  last  libation — they 
resumed  their  slippers — they  descended  the  stairs — passed  the  il- 
luminated atrium — and  walking  unbitten  over  the  fierce  dog 
painted  on  the  threshold,  found  themselves  beneath  the  hght  of 
the  moon  just  risen,  in  the  lively  and  still  crowded  streets  of 
Pompeii. 

They  passed  the  jeweler's  quarter,  sparkling  with  lights, 
caught  and  reflected  by  the  gems  displayed  in  the  shops,  and  ar- 
rived at  last  at  the  door  of  lone.  The  vestibule  blazed  with  rows 
of  lamps;  curtains  of  embroidered  purple  hung  on  either  aperture 
of  the  tal3linum,  whose  walls  and  mosaic  pavement  glowed  with 
the  richest  colors  of  the  artist;  and  under  the  portico  which  sur- 
rounded the  odorous  viridarium  they  found  lone,  already  sur- 
rounded by  adoring  and  applauding  guests! 

"  Did  you  say  she  was  Athenian?  "  whispered  Glaucus,  ere  he 
Ijassed  into  the  peristyle. 

'*  No,  she  is  from  Neapolis." 

"Neapolis  !"  echoed  Glaucus  ;  and  at  that  moment  the  group, 
dividing  on  either  side  of  lone,  gave  to  his  view  that  bright, 
that  nymph-like  beauty,  which  for  months  had  shone  down  upon 
the  waters  of  his  memory. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    TEMPLE  OF  ISIS — ITS  PRIEST—THE    CHABACTER    OF  ABBACE& 
DEVELOPS  ITSELF. 

The  story  returns  to  the  Egyptian.  We  left  Arbaces  upon  the 
shores  of  the  noon-day  sea,  after  he  had  parted  from  Glaucus  and 
his  companion.  As  he  approached  to  the  more  crowded  part  of 
the  bay  he  paused  and  gazed  upon  that  animated  scene  with 
folded  arms,  and  a  bitter  smile  upon  his  dark  features. 

*'  Gulls,  dupes,  fools,  that  ye  are  I"  muttered  he  to  himself  f 


t4  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPETT. 

"whether  business  or  pleasure,  trade  or  religion,  be  your  pur- 
suits, you  are  equally  cheated  by  the  passions  that  ye  should 
rule  I  How  I  could  loathe  you  if  I  did  not  hate — yes,  hate  I 
Greek  or  Roman,  it  is  from  us,  from  the  dark  lore  of  Egypt, 
that  ye  have  stolen  the  five  that  gives  you  souls.  Your  knowl- 
edge— your  poesy — your  laws — your  arts — your  barbarous  mas- 
tery of  war  (all  how*^  tame  and  mutilated,  when  compared  with 
the  vast  original ! ) — ye  have  filcl^ed,  as  a  slave  filches  the  frag- 
ments of  the  feast  from  us  I  And  now,  ye  mimics  of  a  mimic  I 
Romans,  forsooth  !  the  muslu-oom  herd  of  robbers  1  ye  are  our 
masters  I  the  pyramids  look  down  no  more  on  the  race  of  Ram- 
eses — the  eagle  cowers  over  the  serpent  of  the  Nile.  Our  masters 
— no,  not  mine.  My  soul,  by  the  power  of  its  wisdom,  controls 
and  chains  you,  though  the  fetters  are  unseen.  So  long  as  craft 
can  master  force,  eo  long  as  religion  has  a  cave  from  which  ora- 
cles can  dupe  mankind,  the  wise  hold  an  empire  over  earth. 
Even  from  your  vices  Arbaces  distills  his  pleasures — pleasures 
un profaned  by  vulgar  eyes — pleasures  vast,  wealthy,  inexhaust- 
ible, of  which  your  enervate  minds,  in  their  unimaginative  sen- 
suality, cannot  conceive  or  dream  1  Plod  on,  plod  on,  fools  of 
ambition  and  avarice  !  your  petty  thirst  for  fasces  and  quaestor- 
ships  and  all  the  mummery  of  servile  power,  provokes  my  laugh- 
ter and  my  scorn.  My  power  can  extend  wherever  man  be- 
lieves. I  ride  over  the  souls  that  the  purple  veils.  Thebes  may 
fall,  Egypt  be  a  name  ;  the  world  itself  furnishes  the  subjects  of 
Arbaces." 

Thus  saying,  the  Egyptian  moved  slowly  on  ;  and,  entering 
the  town,  his  tall  figure  towered  above  the  crowded  throng  of 
the  forum,  and  swept  toward  the  small  but  graceful  temple  con- 
secrated to  Isis. 

That  edifice  was  then  of  but  recent  erection;  the  ancient  temple 
had  been  thrown  down  n  the  earthquake  sixteen  years  before, 
and  the  new  building  had  become  as  much  in  vogue  with  the 
versatile  Pompeians  as  a  new  church  or  a  new  preacher  may  be 
with  us.  The  oracles  of  the  goddess  at  Pompeii  were  indeed  re- 
markable, not  more  for  the  mysterious  language  in  which  they 
were  clothed,  than  for  the  credit  which  was  attached  to  their 
mandates  and  predictions.  If  they  were  not  dictated  by  adi^^n- 
ity,  they  were  framed  at  least  by  a  profound  knowledge  of  man- 
kind ;  they  applied  themselves  exactly  to  the  circumstances  of  in- 
dividuals, and  made  a  notable  contrast  to  the  vague  and  loose 
generalities  of  their  rival  temples.  As  Arbaces  now  arrived  at 
the  rails  which  separated  the  profane  from  the  sacred  place,  a 
crowd,  composed  of  all  classes,  but  especially  of  the  commercial, 
Collected,  breathless  and  reverential,  before  the  many  altars 
which  rose  in  the  open  court.  In  tlie  walls  of  the  cella,  elevated 
on  seven  steps  of  Parian  marble,  various  statues  stood  in  niches, 
and  those  walls  were  ornamented  with  the  pomegranate,  consev 
crated  to  Isis.  An  oblong  pedestal  occupied  the  interior  building, 
on  which  stood  two  statues,  one  of  Isis,  and  its  companion 
represented  the  silent  and  mystic  Onis.  But  the  building  con- 
tamed  many  other  deities  to  grace  the  court  of  the  Egyptian 
ijeit^l  her  kindred  and  many -titled  Bacchus,  and  the  Cyprian 


THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEII.  35 

Venus,  a  Grecian  disguise  for  herself,  rising  from  her  bath,  an^ 
the  dog-headed  Anubis,  and  the  ox  Apis,  and  various  EgyptiaJ^ 
idols  of  uncouth  form  and  miknown  appellations. 

But  we  must  not  suppose  that,  among  the  cities  of  Magaa 
Graecia,  Isis  was  worshiped  with  those  forms  and  ceremonies 
which  were  of  right  her  own.  The  mongrel  and  modern  nations 
of  the  South,  with  a  mingled  arrogance  and  ignorance,  confound- 
ed the  worship  of  all  climes  and  ages.  And  the  profound  mys- 
teries of  the  Nile  were  degraded  by  a  hundred  meretricious  and 
frivolous  admixtures  from  the  creeds  of  Cephisus  and  of  Tibur. 
The  temple  of  Isis  in  Pompeii  was  served  by  Roman  and  Greek 
priests,  ignorant  alike  of  the  language  and  the  customs  of  her 
ancient  votaries;  and  the  descendant  of  the  dread  Egyptian 
kings,  beneath  the  appearance  of  reverential  awe,  secretly  laugh- 
ed to  scorn  the  puny  mummeries  which  imitated  the  solemn  and 
typical  worship  of  his  burning  clime. 

Kanged  now  on  either  side  the  steps  was  the  sacrificial  crowd, 
arrayed  in  white  garments,  while  at  the  summit  stood  two  of  the 
inferior  priests,  the  one  holding  a  palm  branch,  the  other  a 
slender  sheaf  of  corn.  In  the  narrow  passage  in  front  thronged 
the  by-standers. 

*'And  what,"  whispered  Arbaces  to  one  of  the  by-standers, 
who  was  a  merchant  engaged  in  the  Alexandrian  trade,  which 
trade  had  probably  first  introduced  in  Pompeii  the  worship  of 
the  Egyptian  goddess — "  What  occasion  now  assembles  you  be- 
fore the  altars  of  the  venerable  Isis?  It  seems,  by  the  white 
robes  of  the  group  before  me,  that  a  sacrifice  is  to  be  rendered; 
and  by  the  assembly  of  the  priests,  that  ye  are  prepared  for  some 
oracle.    To  what  question  is  it  to  vouchsafe  a  reply?" 

"We  are  merchants,"  replied  the  by-stander  (who  was  no 
other  than  Diomed)  in  the  same  voice,  "  who  seek  to  know  the 
fate  of  our  vessels  which  sail  for  Alexandria  to-morrow.  We 
are  about  to  offer  up  a  sacrifice  and  implore  an  answer  from 
the  goddess.  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  have  petitioned  the 
priest  to  sacrifice,  as  you  may  see  by  my  dress,  but  I  have  some 
mterest  in  the  success  of  the  fleet— by  Jupiter!  yes.  I  have  a 
pretty  trade,  else  how  could  I  live  in  these  hard  times?" 

The  Egyptian  replied  gravely — "That  though  Isis  was  prop- 
erly the  goddess  of  agriculture,  she  was  no  less  the  patron  of 
commerce."  Then  turning  his  head  toward  the  east,  Arbaoes 
seemed  absorbed  in  silent  prayer. 

And  now  in  the  center  of  the  steps  appeared  a  priest  robed  in 
white  from  head  to  foot,  the  veil  parting  over  the  crown;  two 
new  priests  relieved  those  liitherto  stationed  at  either  corner,  be- 
ing naked  half  way  down  to  the  breast,  and  covered  for  the  rest 
in  white  loose  robes.  At  the  same  time,  seated  at  the  bottom  of 
the  steps,  a  priest  commenced  a  solemn  air  upon  a  long  wind  in- 
strument of  music.  Half  way  down  the  steps  stood  another  fla- 
men,  holding  in  one  hand  the  votive  wreath,  in  the  other  a  white 
wand,  wliile  adding  to  the  picturesque  scene  of  that  Eastern  cer- 
emony, the  stately  ibis  (bird  sacred  to  the  Egyptian  worship) 
looked  mutely  down  from  the  wall  uix)n  the  rite,  or  stalked  be- 
side the  altar  at  the  base  of  the  stepH- 


26  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEH, 

At  that  altar  now  stood  the  sacrificial  flaraen. 

The  coointenance  of  Arbaces  Beemed  to  lose  all  its  rigid  oalm 
wliile  the  anispices  inspected  the  entrails,  and  to  be  intent  in 
pious  aiLXiety — to  rejoice  and  brigliten  as  the  signs  were  de- 
clared favorable,  and  the  fire  began  bright  and  clearly  to  con- 
sume the  sacred  portion  of  the  victim  amid  odors  of  myrrh  and 
frankincense.  It  was  then  that  a  dead  sUence  fell  over  the  whis- 
pering crowd,  and  the  priests  gathering  round  tlie  cella,  another 
priest,  naked  save  by  a  cincture  round  the  middle,  rushed  for- 
ward, and  dancing  with  \vild  gestures,  implored  an  answer  from 
the  goddess.  He  ceased  at  last  in  exhaustion,  and  a  low  mur- 
muring noise  was  heard  within  the  body  of  the  statue;  tlu-ice  the 
head  moved,  and  the  lips  parted,  and  then  a  hollow  voice  uttered 
these  mystic  words: 

There  are  waves  like  chargers  that  meet  and  glow, 
There  are  graves  ready  wrought  in  the  rocks  below; 
On  the  brow  of  the  future  the  dangers  lower, 
But  blest  are  your  barks  in  the  fearful  hour. 

The  voice  ceased — the  crowd  breathed  more  freely — the  mer- 
chants looked  at  each  other.  *'  Nothing  can  be  more  plain," 
murmured  Diomed;  "  there  is  to  be  a  storm  at  sea,  as  there  very 
often  is  at  the  beginning  of  autumn,  but  our  vessels  are  to  be 
saved.    O  beneficent  Isis!" 

"Lauded  eternally  be  the  goddess!"  said  the  merchants: 
*'  what  can  be  less  equivocal  than  her  prediction?" 

Raising  one  hand  in  sign  of  silence  to  the  people,  for  the  rights 
of  Isis  enjoined  what  to  the  lively  Pompeians  was  an  impossible 
suspense  from  the  use  of  the  vocal  organs,  the  chief  priest  poured 
his  libation  on  the  altar,  and  after  a  short  concluding  prayer  the 
ceremony  was  over,  and  the  congi-egation  dismissed.  Still, 
liowever,  as  the  crowd  dispersed  themselves  here  and  there,  the 
Egyptian  lingered  by  the  railing,  and  when  the  space  became 
tolerably  cleared,  one  of  the  priests,  approaching  it,  saluted  him 
with  great  appearance  of  friendly  familiarity. 

The  countenance  of  the  priest  was  remarkably  unprepossessing 
— Ids  shaven  skull  was  so  low  and  naiTow  in  the  front  as  nearly 
to  approach  to  the  conformation  of  tliat  of  an  African  savage, 
pave  only  toward  the  temples,  where,  in  that  organ  styled  in- 
quisitiveness  by  the  pupils  of  a  science  modern  in  name,  but  best 
practically  known  (as  their  sculj)ture  teaches  us)  among  the  an- 
cients, two  huge  an<l  almost  prt'teruatural  jnotuberauces  yet  more 
distorted  the  unshai)ely  head;  around  the  brows  the  skin  was 
puckered  into  a  web  of  deep  and  intricate  wrinkles— the  eyes, 
dark  and  small,  rolled  in  a  muddy  and  yellcnv  orbit— the  nose, 
short  yet  coarse,  was  distended  at  the  nostrils  like  a  satyr's — and 
the  thick  but  pallid  lips,  the  high  cheek-bones,  the  livid  and 
motley  hues  tliat  stiiiggled  through  the  parchment  skin,  com- 
pleted a  countenance  wliich  none  could  behold  without  repug- 
nance, and  few  with<jut  terror  aaul  distrust;  whatever  the  wishes 
'>f  the  mind,  the  animal  frame  was  well  fitted  to  execute  tliem; 
the  wiry  muscles  of  the  throat,  the  broad  chest,  the  nervous 
hands  and  lean,  gaunt  arms   u Mi  li  were  bared  above  the  elbow, 


TBE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  2? 

betokened  a  form  capable  alike  of  great  active  exertion  and  pass- 
ive endurance. 

"  Calenus,"  said  the  Egyptian  to  this  fascinating  flamen,  "  you 
have  improved  the  voice  of  the  statue  much  by  attending  to  my 
suggestion;  and  your  verses  are  excellent.  Always  prophesy 
good  fortune,  unless  there  is  an  absolute  impossibility  of  its  ful- 
fiUment." 

"  Besides,"  added  Calenus,  "if  the  storm  does  come,  and  if  it 
does  overwhelm  the  accursed  ships,  have  we  not  prophesied  it? 
and  are  the  barks  not  blest  to  be  at  rest? — for  rest  prays  the 
mariner  in  the  ^gean  sea,  or  at  least  so  says  Horace;  can  the 
mariner  be  more  at  rest  in  the  sea  than  when  he  is  at  the  bottom 
of  it?" 

'*  Right,  my  Calenus;  I  wish  Apaecides  would  take  a  lesson 
from  your  wisdom.  But  I  desire  to  confer  with  you  relative  to 
him  and  to  other  matters;  you  can  admit  me  into  one  of  your 
less  sacred  apartments?" 

''Assuredly,"  replied  the  priest,  leading  the  way  to  one  of  the 
small  chambers  which  surrounded  the  open  gate. 

Here  they  seated  themselves  before  a  small  table  spread  with 
dishes  containing  fruit  and  eggs,  and  various  cold  meats,  with 
vases  of  excellent  wine,  of  which  w^Mle  the  companions  partook, 
a  curtain,  drawn  across  the  entrance  opening  to  the  court,  con- 
cealed them  from  view,  but  admonished  them  by  the  thinness  of 
the  partition  to  speak  low,  or  to  speak  no  secrets;  they  chose  the 
former  alternative. 

"  Thou  knowest,"  said  Arbaces,  in  a  voice  that  scarcely  stirred 
the  air,  so  soft  and  inward  was  its  sound,  "  that  it  has  ever  been 
my  maxim  to  attach  myself  to  the  young.  From  their  flexile 
and  unformed  minds  I  can  carve  out  my  fittest  tools.  I  weave, 
I  warp,  I  mould  them  at  my  wall.  Of  the  men  I  make  merely 
followers  or  servants;  of  the  women " 

"Mistresses,"  said  Calenus,  as  a  livid  grin  distorted  his  ungain- 
ly features. 

"  Yes,  I  do  not  disguise  it;  woman  is  the  main  object,  the  great 
appetite  of  my  soul. "  As  you  feed  the  victim  for  the  slaughter,  I 
love  to  rear  the  votaries  of  my  pleasure.  I  love  to  train,  to  ripen 
their  minds — to  unfold  the  sweet  blossom  of  their  hidden  passions, 
In  order  to  prepare  the  fruit  to  my  taste.  I  loathe  your  ready- 
made  and  ripened  courtesans;  it  is  in  the  soft  and  unconscious 
progress  of  innocence  to  desire  that  I  find  the  true  charm  of  love; 
it  is  thus  that  I  defy  satiety;  and  by  contemplating  the  freshness 
of  others,  I  sustain  the  freshness  of  my  own  sensations.  From 
the  young  hearts  of  my  victims  I  draw  the  ingredients  of  the 
caldron  in  which  I  re-youth  myself.  But  enough  of  this;  to  the 
subject  before  us.  You  know,  then,  that  in  Neapolis  some  time 
since  I  encountered  lone  and  Apaecides,  brother  and  sister,  the 
children  of  Athenians  who  had  settled  at  Neapolis.  The  death 
of  their  parents,  who  knew  and  esteemed  me,  constituted  me  their 
guardian.  I  was  not  unmindful  of  the  trust.  The  youth,  docile 
and  mild,  yielded  readily  to  the  impression  I  sought  to  stamp 
upon  him.  Next  to  woman,  I  love  recollections  of  my  ancestral 
l^d;  I  lore  to  ke€p  *liTe— to  propagate  on  distsmt  shores  (whioh 


38  THS  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEII, 

her  oelenies  perchance  yet  people),  her  dark  and  mystic  creeds,  jt 
xnay  be  thatjit  pleases  me  to  delude  mankind  while  I  thus  serve  the 
deities.  To  Apascides  I  taught  the  solemn  faith  of  Isis.  I  un- 
folded to  him  something  of  those  sublime  allegories,  which  are 
couched  beneath  her  worship.  I  excited  in  a  soul  peculiarly 
ahve  to  religious  fervor  tliat  enthusiam  which  imagination  begets 
on  faith.     I  have  placed  him  among  you;  he  is  one  of  you." 

"  He  is  so,"  said  Calenus:  "but  in  thus  stimulating  his  faith,  you 
have  robbed  him  of  wisdom.  He  is  horror  struck  that  he  is  no 
longer  duped;  oiu*  sage  delusions,  our  speaking  statues  and  secret 
staircases  dismay  and  revolt  him;  he  pines;  he  wastes  away;  he 
mutters  to  himself;  he  refuses  to  share  our  ceremonies.  He  has 
been  known  to  frequent  the  company  of  men  suspected  of  adher- 
ence to  that  new  and  atheistical  creed  which  denies  all  our  gods, 
and  terms  our  oracles  the  inspirations  of  that  malevolent  spirit  of 
wliich  tradition  speaks.  Our  oracles — alas!  we  know  well  whose 
inspirations  they  are!" 

•'  This  is  what  I  feared,"  said  Arbaces  musingly,  "from  various 
reproaches  he  made  me  when  I  last  saw  lim.  Of  late  he  hath 
shunned  my  steps,  I  must  find  him;  I  must  continue  my  lessons; 
I  must  lead  him  into  the  adytum  of  Wisdom.  I  must  teach  him 
that  there  are  two  stages  of  sanctity — the  first  faith — the  next. 
DELUSION;  the  one  for  the  vulgar,  the  second  for  the  sage." 

"I  never  passed  through  the  first,"  said  Calenus,  "nor  yom 
either,  I  tliink,  my  Arbaces." 

"You  err,"  replied  the  Egyptian,  gravely.  "I  believe  at  this 
day  (not  indeed  that  which  I  teach,  but  that  which  I  teach  not). 
Natiire  has  a  sanctity  against  which  I  can  not  (nor  would  I)  steel 
conviction.  I  believe  in  mine  own  knowledge,  and  that  has  re- 
vealed to  me — but  no  matter.  Now  to  earthlier  and  more  invit- 
ing themes.  If  I  thus  fulfilled  my  object  nn  ith  Apreeides,  what 
was  my  design  for  lone?  Thou  knowest  already  I  intend  to  make 
her  my  queen — my  bride— my  heart's  Isis.  Never  till  I  saw  her 
knew  I  all  the  love  of  wliich  ray  nature  is  capable." 

"I  hear  from  a  thousand  lips  that  she  is  a  second  Helen,*  said 
Calenus;  and  he  smacked  his  own  lips,  but  whether  at  the  wine 
or  the  notion  it  is  not  easy  to  decide. 

"  Yes,  she  is  a  beauty  that  Greece  itself  never  excelled,"  re- 
sumed Arl)ace8.  "But  that  is  not  all;  she  has  a  soul  worthy  to 
match  with  mine.  She  has  a  genius  beyond  that  of  women — 
keen — dazzling — bold.  Poetry  flows  spontivueous  to  her  li[)s;  utter 
but  a  truth,  and  how  intricate  and  profound  her  mind  seizes  and 
commands  it.  Her  imagination  and  reason  are  not  at  war  with 
each  other;  they  harmonize  and  direct  lier  course  as  the  winds 
and  the  waves  direct  some  lofty  bark.  With  this  slie  unites  a 
daring  independence  of  thought;  she  can  stand  alone  in  the 
world;  she  can  be  as  l)rave  as  she  is  gentle;  this  is  the  nature  I 
have  sought  all  my  life  in  woman,  and  never  found  till  now. 
lone  must  \ye  mine  !  In  her  I  have  a  double  passion;  I  wish  to 
enjoy  a  l)eauty  of  si)irit  as  of  form." 

Meanwhile,  Arbaces  ha<l  not  of  late  much  frequented  the  house 
of  lone;  and  when  he  had  visited  her  he  had  not  encountered 
Glaucufl,  nor  knew  he,  as  yet,  of  that  love  which  had  so  suddenly 


THE  LAST  DA  TS  OP  POMPEII,  2^ 

epning  up  between  himself  and  his  designs.  In  his  interest  for 
the  brother  of  lone,  he  had  been  forced,  too,  a  little  while,  to 
suspend  his  interest  in  lone  herself.  His  pride  and  his  selfish- 
ness were  aroused  and  alarmed  at  the  sudden  change  which  had 
come  over  the  spirit  of  the  youth.  He  trembJed  lest  he  himself 
should  lose  a  docile  pupil,  and  Isis  an  enthusiastic  servant. 
Apsecides  had  ceased  to  seek  or  to  consult  him.  He  was  rarely 
to  be  found;  he  turned  sullenly  from  the  Egyptian — nay,  he  fled 
when  he  perceived  him  in  the  distance.  Arbaces  was  one  of  those 
haughty  and  powerful  spirits  accustomed  to  master  others;  he 
chafed  at  the  notion  that  one  once  his  own  should  ever  elude  his 
grasp.  He  swore  inly  that  Apaecides  should  not  escape  him. 
"  She  is  not  yours  yet,  then?"  saia  the  priest. 
"No;  she  loves  me — but  as  a  friend — she  loves  me  with  her 
mind  only.  She  fancies  in  me  the  paltry  virtues  which  I  have 
only  the  profounder  virtue  to  disdain.  But  you  must  pursue  with 
me  her  history.  The  brother  and  sister  were  young  and  rich: 
lone  is  proud  and  ambitious — proud  of  her  genius— the  magic  of 
her  poetry — the  charm  of  her  conversation.  When  her  brother 
left  me,  and  entered  your  temple,  in  order  to  be  near  him,  she 
removed  also  to  Pomx)eii.  She  has  suffered  her  talents  to  be 
known.  She  summons  crowds  to  her  feasts;  her  voice  enchants 
them;  her  poetry  subdues.  She  dehghts  in  being  thought  the 
successor  of  Eruma." 
"Orof  Sapphor 

*'  But  Sappho  without  love!  I  encouraged  her  in  tliis  boldness 
of  career — in  this  indulgence  of  vanity  and  pleasure.  I  love  to 
steep  her  amid  the  dissipations  and  luxury  of  this  abandoned 
city.  Mark  me,  CalenusI  I  desired  to  enervate  her  mind! — it 
has  been  too  pui-e  to  receive  yet  the  breath  which  I  wish  not  to 
pass,  but  burningiy  to  eat  into,  the  mirror.  I  wished  her  to  be 
sm-rounded  by  lovers,  hollow,  vain,  and  frivolous  (lovers  that  her 
nature  must  despise"),  in  order  to  feel  the  want  of  love.  Then,  in 
those  soft  intervals  of  lassitude  that  succeed  to  excitement,  I  can 
weave  my  spells — excite  her  interest — attract  her  passions — pos- 
sess myself  of  her  heart.  For  it  is  not  the  young,  nor  the  beauti- 
ful, nor  the  gay,  that  should  fascinate  lone;  her  imagination  must 
be  won,  and  the  life  of  Arbaces  has  been  one  scene  of  triumph 
over  the  imaginations  of  his  kind." 

"And  hast  thou  no  fear,  then,  of  thy  rivals?  The  gallants  of 
Italy  are  skilled  in  the  art  to  please." 

"None!  Her  Greek  soul  despises  the  barbarian  Romans,  and 
would  scorn  itself  if  it  admitted  a  thought  of  love  for  one  of  that 
upstart  race." 

"But  thou  art  an  Egyptian,  not  a  Greek!" 
"Egyi^t,"  replied  Arbaces,  "is  the  mother  of  Athens.  Her 
tutelary  Minerva  is  our  deity;  and  her  founder,  Cecrops,  was  the 
fugitive  of  Egyptian  Sals.  This  have  I  ah'eady  taught  her;  and 
in  m}'^  blood  she  venerates  the  eldest  dynasties  of  earth.  But  yet 
I  will  own  that  of  late  some  uneasy  suspicions  have  crossed  my 
mind.  She  is  more  silent  than  she  used  to  be;  she  loves  melan- 
choly and  subduing  music;  she  sighs  without  an  outward  cause.. 
This  may  be  the  beginning  of  love — it  may  be  the  want  of  love. 


80  THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII 

in  either  case  it  is  time  for  me  to  begin  my  operations  on  hex 
fancies  and  her  heart:  in  the  one  case,  to  divert  the  source  of 
love  to  me:  in  the  other,  in  me  to  awaken  it.  It  is  for  this  that 
I  have  sought  you." 

"  And  how  can  I  assist  you?" 

"  I  am  about  to  invite  her  to  a  feast  in  my  house.  I  wish  to 
dnzzle — to  bewilder — to  inflame  her  senses.  Our  arts— the  arts 
by  wliich  Egypt  trained  young  novitiates — must  be  employed; 
and,  under  veil  of  the  mysteries  of  religion,  I  will  open  to  her 
the  secrets  of  love." 

*'Alil  now  I  understand — one  of  those  voluptuous  banquets 
that,  espite  our  dull  vows  of  mortified  coldness,  we,  the  priests 
of  Isis,  have  shared  at  thy  house." 

"  No,  no!  Thinkest  thou  her  chaste  eyes  are  ripe  for  such 
scenes?  No;  but  first  we  must  ensnare  the  brother — an  easier 
task.    Listen  to  me  while  I  give  you  my  instructions." 


CHAPTER  V. 

MORE  OF  THE  FLOWER-GIRL. — THE  PROGRESS  OF  LOVE. 

The  sun  shone  gayly  into  that  beautiful  chamber  in  the  house 
of  Glaucus,  which  I  have  before  said  is  now  called  "  the  Room 
of  Leda."  The  morning  rays  entered  through  rows  of  casements 
at  the  higher  part  of  tlie  room,  and  through  the  door  which 
opened  on  the  garden,  that  answered  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
southern  cities  the  same  purpose  that  a  greenhouse  or  conserva- 
toiy  does  to  us.  Tlie  size  of  the  garden  ditl  not  adapt  it  for  ex- 
ercise, but  the  various  and  fragrant  plants  with  which  it  was 
filled  gave  a  luxury  to  that  indolence  so  dear  to  the  dwellers  in 
a  sunny  clime.  And  now  the  odors,  fanned  by  a  gentle  wind 
creeping  from  the  adjacent  sea,  scattered  themselves  over  that 
chamber,  whose  walls  vied  with  the  richest  colors  of  the  most 

flowing  flowers.  Beside  the  gem  of  the  room,  the  painting  of 
<eda  and  Tyndarus;  in  the  center  of  each  compartment  of  the 
walls  were  set  other  pictures  of  exquisite  beauty.  In  one  you 
saw  Cupid  leaning  on  the  knees  of  Venus;  in  another  Ariadne 
sleeping  on  the  beach,  unconscious  of  the  perfidy  of  Theseus. 
Merrily  the  sunbeams  played  to  and  fro  on  the  tessellated  floor 
and  the  brilliant  walls— far  more  happily  came  the  rays  of  joy  to 
the  heart  of  the  young  Glaucus. 

"I  have  seen  her,  then,"  said  he,  as  he  paced  that  narrow 
chamber— "I  have  heard  her— nay,  I  have  spoken  to  her  again— 
I  have  listened  to  the  music  of  her  song,  and  she  sang  of  glory 
and  of  Greece.  I  have  discovered  the  long-sought  idol  of  my 
dreams;  and  like  the  Cyprian  sculptor,  I  have  breathed  life  into 
my  own  imaginings." 

Longer,  perhaps,  had  been  the  enamored  soliloquy  of  Glaucus, 
but  at  that  moment  a  shadow  darkened  the  threshold  of  the 
chamber,  and  a  young  female,  still  half  a  child  in  years,  broke 
upon  his  solitude.  She  was  dressed  simply  in  a  white  tunic, 
wliich  reached  from  the  neck  to  the  ankles  ;  under  her  arm  she 
bore  a  basket  of  flowers,  and  in  the  other  hand  she  held  a  bronze 
water-vase ;  her  features  were  more  formed  than  exactly  became 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIL  81 

her  years,  yet  they  were  soft  and  feminine  in  their  outline,  and, 
without  being  beautiful  in  themselves,   they  were  almost  made 
BO  by  their  beauty  of  expression  ;  there  was  something  ineffably 
gentle,  and  you  would  say  patient,  in  her  aspect.      A  look  of  re- 
signed sorrow,  of  tranquil  endurance,  had  banished  the  smile, 
but  not  the  sweetness,  from  her  hps  ;  something  timid  and  cau- 
tious in  her  step — something  wandering  in  her  eyes,   led  you  to. 
suspect  the  affliction  which  she  had  suffered  from  her  birth  :  slie 
was  blind  ;  but  in  the  orbs  themselves  there  was  no  visible  d-j 
feet — their  melancholy  and  subdued  hght  was  clear,   cloudles 
and  serene.     **They  tell  me  that  Glaucus  is  here,"  said  she 
"may  I  come  in?" 

*'  Ah,  my  Nydia,"  said  the  Greek,  '*  is  that  you  ?  I  knew  you 
would  not  neglect  my  invitation." 

*'  Glaucus  ^d  but  justice  to  himself,"  answered  Nydia,  with  a 
blush  ;  "  for  he  has  always  been  kind  to  the  poor  blixid  girl." 

"  Who  could  be  otherwise  ?"  said  Glaucus,  tenderly,  and  in  the 
voice  of  a  compassionate  brother. 

Nydia  sighed  and  paused  before  she  resumed,  without  reply^ 
ing  to  his  remark.     '*  You  have  but  lately  returned  ?" 

"  This  is  the  sixth  sun  that  hath  shone  upon  me  at  Pompeii." 

"  And  you  are  well  ?  Ah,  I  need  not  ask — for  who  that  seea 
the  earth,  which  they  tell  me  is  so  beautiful,  can  be  ill  ?" 

"  I  am  well.  And  you,  Nydia — how  you  have  grown  !  Next 
year  you  will  be  thinking  what  answer  to  make  your  lovers." 

A  second  blush  passed  over  the  cheek  of  Nydia,  but  this  time 
she  frowned  as  she  blushed.  "■  I  have  brought  you  some  flow^ 
ers,"  said  she,  without  replying  to  a  remark  that  she  seemed 
to  resent ;  and  feehng  about  the  room  till  she  found  the  table 
that  stood  by  Glaucus,  she  laid  the  basket  upon  it ;  they  are 
poor,  but  they  are  fresh  gathered." 

**  They  might  have  come  from  Flora  herself,"  saidl  he,  kindly; 
"  and  T  renew  again  my  vow  to  the  Graces,  that  I  will  wear  no 
other  garlands  while  thy  hands  can  weave  me  such  as  these." 

*'  And  how  find  you  the  flowers  in  your  viridarium  ?— are  the? 
thriving?" 

"  Wonderf ullj'  so — ^the  Lares  themselves  must  have  tended 
them." 

"  Ah,  now  you  give  me  pleasure  ;  for  I  came,  as  often  as  I 
could  steal  the  leisure,  to  water  and  tend  them  in  your  absence." 

"  How  shall  I  thank  thee,  fair  Nydia?"  said  the  Greek.  "  Glau- 
cus little  dreamed  that  he  left  one  memory  so  watchful  over  his 
favorites  at  Pompeii." 

The  hand  of  the  child  trembled,  and  her  breast  heaved  beneath 
her  tunic.  She  turned  round  in  embarrassment.  "  The  sun  is 
hot  for  the  poor  flowers,"  said  she,  "  to-day,  and  they  will  miss 
me;  for  I  have  been  ill  lately,  and  it  is  nine  days  since  I  visited 
them." 

"  111,  Nydia!— yet  your  cheek  has  more  color  than  it  had  last 
year." 

"  I  am  often  ailing,"  said  the  blind  girl  touchingly,  **  and  as  I 
grow  up  I  grieve  more  that  I  am  blind.  But  now  to  the  flo^vers!" 
So  saying,  she  made  a  slight  reverence  with  her  head,  and 


S2  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII, 

passing  into  the  viridarium,  busied  herself  with  watering  the 
flowers. 

"Poor  Nydia,"  thought  Glaucus,  gazing  on  hor,  "thine  is  a 
hard  doom!  Thou  seest  not  tlie  earth — nor  the  sun — nor  the 
ocean — nor  the  stars;  above  all,  tbou  canst  not  behold  lone." 

At  that  last  tbought  his  mind  flew  back  to  the  past  evening, 
and  was  a  second  time  disturbed  in  its  reveries  by  tbe  entrance 
of  Clodius.  It  was  a  proof  liow  much  a  single  evening  liad  suf- 
ficed to  increase  and  to  refine  the  love  of  the  Atbeuiau  for  lone, 
that  wbereas  he  bad  confided  to  Clodius  tbe  secret  of  his  first  in- 
terview with  her,  and  the  effect  it  had  produced  on  bim,  he  now 
felt  an  invincible  aversion  even  to  mention  to  bim  her  name.  He 
had  seen  lone,  briglit,  pure,  unsullied,  in  tlie  midst  of  the  gayest 
and  most  profligate  gallants  of  Pompeii,  charming  rather  tlian 
awing  tbe  boldest  into  respect,  and  changing  tl^e  very  nature  of 
the  most  sensual  and  tbe  least  ideal — as  by  her  intellectual  and 
refining  spells  she  reversed  the  fable  of  Circe,  and  converted  tbe 
animals  into  men.  They  who  could  not  understand  her  soul  were 
made  spiritual,  as  it  were,  by  the  magic  of  her  beauty — they  wlio 
had  no  heart  for  poetry  had  ears,  at  least,  for  the  uielody  of  her 
voice.  Seeing  her  thus  surrounded,  purifying  and  brightening 
all  things  with  ber  presence,  Glaucus,  almost  for  tlie  first  time, 
felt  the  nobleness  of  his  own  nature — be  felt  how  unworthy  of 
the  goddess  of  his  dreams  had  been  his  comi^auions  and  his  pur- 
suits. A  veil  seemed  lifted  from  his  eyes;  he  saw  that  immeasur- 
able distance  between  himself  and  bis  associates  which  the  deceiv- 
ing mists  of  pleasure  had  hitherto  concealed;  he  was  refined  by 
a  sense  of  his  courage  in  aspiring  to  lone.  He  felt  that  hence- 
forth it  was  bis  destiny  to  look  upward  and  to  soar.  He  could 
no  longer  breathe  that  name,  which  sounded  to  the  sense  of  his 
ardent  fancy  as  something  sacred  and  divuie,  to  lewd  and  vulgar 
ears.  She  was  no  longer  tbe  beautiful  girl  once  seen  and  ]r<\s- 
sionately  remembered — she  was  already  the  mistress,  the  divini- 
ty of  his  soul.  This  feeling  who  has  not  experienced?  If  thou 
has  not,  tben  thou  hast  never  loved. 

When  Clodius  therefore  spoke  to  him  in  affected  transports  of 
the  beauty  of  lone,  Glaucus  felt  only  resentment  and  disgust 
that  such  lips  should  dare  to  praise  her;  he  answered  coldly,  and 
the  Roman  imagined  that  his  passion  was  cured  instead  of  liight- 
ened.  Clodius  scarcely  regretted  it,  for  bo  was  anxious  tbat 
Glaucus  should  marry  an  heiress  yet  more  richly  endowed — Julia, 
the  daughter  of  tbe  wealtliy  Diomed,  whose  gold  the  gamester 
imagined  he  could  readily  divert  into  his  owtl  coffers.  Their  con- 
versation did  not  flow  with  its  usual  ease;  and  no  sooner  had 
Clodius  left  him  than  Glaucus  bent  his  way  to  the  house  of  lone. 
In  passing  by  the  threshold  he  again  encountered  Nydia,  who 
had  finished  her  graceful  task.  She  knew  bis  step  on  the  in- 
stant. 

**  You  are  early  abroad,'' said  she. 

•*  Yes;  for  the  skies  of  Campania  rebuke  the  sluggard  who  neg- 
lects them." 

*'  Ah,  would  I  could  see  them!''  murmured  the  blind  girl,  but 
BO  low  that  Glaucus  did  not  overliear  the  complaint. 


THE  LAST  BAYS  OF  POMPEII.  33 

The  Thessalian  lingered  on  tlie  threshold  a  few  momenta,  and 
then  guiding  her  steps  by  a  long  staff,  which  she  used  with  great 
dexterity,  she  took  her  way  homeward.  She  soon  turned  from 
the  more  gaudy  stieets,  and  entered  a  quarter  of  the  town  but 
little  loved  by  the  decorous  and  the  sober.  But  from  the  low  and 
rude  evidences  of  vice  around  lier  she  was  saved  by  her  misfort- 
une. And  at  that  hour  the  streets  were  quiet  and  silent,  nor  was 
her  youthful  ear  shocked  by  the  sounds  which  too  often  broke 
along  the  obscene  and  obscure  haunts  she  patiently  and  silently 
traversed. 

She  knocked  at  the  back  door  of  a  sort  of  tavern;  it  opened, 
and  a  rude  voice  bade  her  give  an  account  of  the  sesterces.  Ere 
she  could  reply,  another  voice,  less  vulgarly  accented,  said: 

"  Never  mind  those  petty  profits,  my  Burbo.  The  girl's  voice 
will  be  wanted  again  soon  at  our  rich  friend's  revels;  and  he  pays, 
as  thou  knowest,  pretty  high  for  his  nightingales'  tongues." 

*'  Oh,  I  hope  not— I  trust  not,"  cried  Nydia,  trembhng;  *'  I  will 
beg  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  but  send  me  not  there. " 

"  And  why?"  asked  the  same  voice. 

"  Because — because  I  am  young,  and  delicately  born,  and  the 
female  companions  I  meet  there  are  not  fit  associates  for  one  who 
_:vvho " 

"  Is  a  slave  in  the  house  of  Burbo,"  returned  the  voice  ironical- 
ly, and  with  a  coarse  laugh. 

The  Thessalian  put  down  the  flowers,  and,  leaning  her  face  on 
her  hands,  wept  silently. 

Meanwhile,  Glaucus  sought  the  house  of  the  beautiful  Neapoli- 
tan. He  found  lone  sitting  amid  her  attendants,  who  were  at 
work  around  her.  Her  harp  stood  at  her  side,  for  lone  herself 
was  unusually  idle,  perhaps  unusually  thoughtful,  that  day. 
He  thought  her  even  more  beautiful  by  the  morning  light,  and 
in  her  simple  robe,  than  amid  the  blazing  lamps  and  decorated 
with  the  costly  jewels  of  the  previous  night:  not  the  less  so  from 
a  certain  paleness  that  overspread  her  transparent  hues — not  the 
less  so  from  the  blush  that  mounted  over  them  when  he  ap- 
proached. Accustomed  to  flatter,  flattery  died  upon  his  lips 
when  he  addressed  lone.  He  felt  it  beneath  her,  to  utter  the 
homage  which  every  look  conveyed.  They  spoke  of  Greece;  this 
was  a  theme  on  which  lone  loved  rather  to  listen  than  to  con- 
verse: it  was  a  theme  on  which  the  Greek  could  have  been  elo- 
quent forever.  He  described  to  her  the  silver  olive  groves  that 
yet  clad  the  banks  of  Ilyssus,  and  the  temples  already  despoiled 
of  half  their  glories — but  how  beautiful  in  decay!  He  looked 
back  on  the  melanc]iol;f  city  of  Harmodius  the  free,  and  Pericles 
the  magnificent,  from  "the  higl,it  of  that  distant  memory,  which 
mellowed  into  one  hazy  light  all  the  ruder  and  darker  shades. 

He  had  seen  the  land  of  poetry  chiefly  in  the  poetical  age  of 
early  youth;  and  the  associations  of  patriotism  were  blended 
with  those  of  the  flush  and  spring  of  life.  And  lone  listened  to 
him,  absorbed  and  mute;  dearer  were  those  accents,  and  those 
descriptions,  than  all  the  prodigal  adulation  of  her  numberless 
adorers.  Was  it  a  sin  to  love  her  countryman?  she  loved  Athens 
jn  him — the  gods  of  her  race,  the  land  of  her  dreamSj  spoke  to 


84  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

her  in  his  voice!  From  that  time  they  daily  saw  each  other.  At 
the  cool  of  the  evenin.u;  they  made  excursions  on  the  placid  sea. 
By  uipht  they  met  aj^ain  iii  lone's  porticos  and  halls.  Tlioir  love 
was  sudden,  but  it  was  strong;  it  tilled  all  the  sources  of  their 
life.  Heart — brain— sense — imagination,  all  were  its  ministers 
and  priests.  As  you  take  some  obstacle  from  two  objects  that 
have  a  mutual  attraction,  they  meet,  and  unite  at  once:  their 
wonder  was,  that  they  had  lived  separate  so  long.  And  it  was 
natural  that  they  shoiild  so  love.  Young,  Ix'autiful,  and  gifted — 
of  the  same  birth,  and  the  same  soids.  tliere  was  poetry  in  their 
very  union.  They  imagined  the  hea\-ens  smiled  upon  their  af- 
fection. As  the  p(  rse'cuted  seek  refuge  at  the  shrine,  so  they 
recognized  in  the  altar  of  their  love  an  asylum  from  the  sorrows 
of  earth;  they  covered  it  with  flowers — they  knew  not  of  the 
seri>ents  that  lay  coiled  behind. 

One  evening,  the  fifth  after  their  first  meeting  at  Pompeii, 
Glaucus  and  lone,  with  a  small  party  of  chosen  friends,  were  re- 
turning from  an  excursion  round  the  bay;  their  vessel  skimmed 
lightly  over  the  twilight  waters,  whose  lucid  mirror  was  only 
broken  by  the  dripping  oars.  As  the  rest  of  the  party  conversed 
gayly  with  each  other,  Glaucus  lay  at  the  feet  of  lone,  and  he 
would  have  looked  up  in  her  face,  but  he  did  not  dare.  lone 
broke  the  pause  between  them. 

**  My  poor  brother."  said  she,  sighing,  '*how  once  he  would 
have  enjoyed  this  hour." 

"  Your  brother,"  said  Glaucus,  -'I  have  not  seen  him.  Occu- 
pied with  you,  I  have  thought  of  nothing  else,  or  I  should  have 
asked  if  tliat  Avas  not  your  brother  for  whose  companionship  you 
left  me  at  the  Temple'of  Minerva,  in  Neapolis?"' 

"It  was." 

**  And  is  he  here?" 

*♦  He  is." 

*'  At  Pompeii,  and  not  constantly  with  you?    Impossible!" 

"He  has  other  duties,"  answered  lone,  sadly;  "he  is  a  priest 
of  Isis." 

"So  young,  too;  and  that  priesthood,  in  its  laws  at  least,  so 
severe,"  said  the  warm  and  bright-hearted  Greek,  in  surprise  and 
pity.     "  What  could  have  been  his  inducement?" 

"  He  was  always  enthusiastic  and  fervent  in  religious  devo- 
tion; and  the  eloquence  of  an  Egyptian — our  friend  and  guard- 
ian— kindled  in  him  the  jnous  desire  to  consecrate  his  life  to  the^ 
most  mystic  of  our  deities.  Perhaps,  in  the  intenseness  of  his 
zeal,  he  found  in  the  severity  of  that  peculiar  priesthood  its  i>e- 
culiar  attraction." 

"  And  he  does  not  repent  his  choice?— I  trust  he  is  happy." 

lone  sighed  deeply,  and  lowered  her  veil  over  her  eyes. 

"  I  wish,"  said  slie,  altfr  a  ])ause,  "  that  he  had  not  been  so 
hasty.  Perhaps,  like  all  Avho  ex])ect  too  much,  he  is  revolted  too 
easily." 

"  Then  he  is  not  happy  in  his  new  condition.  And  this  Egyp- 
tian, Mas  he  a  ])ricst  himself?  V/aa  h«  interested  in  recruits  t9 
the  sacre<l  band?" 


The  last  dats  of  pompeil  8h 

**  No.  His  main  interest  was  in  our  happiness.  He  thought 
he  promoted  that  of  my  brother.     We  were  left  orphans." 

"Like  myself,"  said  Glaucus,  with  a  deep  meaning  in  his 
voice. 

lone  cast  down  her  eyas  as  she  resumed: 

"  And  Arbaces  sought  to  supply  the  place  of  oui'  parent.  You 
must  know  him.     He  does  love  genius." 

"Arbaces!  I  know  him  already;  at  least  w^e  speak  when  we 
meet.  But  for  your  praise  I  would  not  seek  to  know  more  ol 
him.  My  heart  inchues  readily  to  most  of  my  kind.  But  that 
dark  Egyptian,  with  his  gloomy  brow  and  icy  smiles,  seems  to 
me  to  sadden  the  very  sun.  One  would  think  that  like  Epimen- 
ides  the  Cretan,  he  had  spent  forty  years  in  a  cave,  and  had 
found  something  unnatural  in  the  dayhght  ever  afterward." 

"Yet,  like  Epimenides,  he  is  kind,  and  wise,  and  gentle," 
answered  lone. 

"  Oh,  happy  that  he  lias  thy  praise!  He  needs  no  other  virtues 
to  make  him  dear  to  me." 

"  His  calm,  his  coldness,"  said  lone,  evasively  pursuing  the  sub- 
ject, "are  perhaps  but  the  exhaustion  of  past  sufferings;  as 
yonder  mountain  (and  she  pointed  to  Vesuvius),  wiiich  we  see 
dark  and  tranquil  in  the  distance,  once  nursed  the  fires  forever 
quenched." 

They  both  gazed  on  the  mountain  as  lone  said  these  words;  the 
rest  of  the  sky  was  bathed  in  rosy  and  tender  hues,  but  over  that 
gray  summit,  rising  amid  the  woods  and  vineyards  that  then 
clomb  half-way  up  the  ascent,  there  hung  a  black  and  ominous 
cloud,  tlie  single  frown  of  the  landscape.  A  sudden  and  unac- 
countable gloom  came  over  each  as  they  thus  gazed;  and  in  that 
sympathy  which  love  had  already  taught  them,  and  which  bade 
them,  in  the  slightest  shadows  of  emotion,  the  faintest  presenti- 
ment of  evil,  turn  for  r^^fugs  to  each  other,  their  gaze  at  the  same 
moment  left  the  mountain,  and,  full  of  ujiimaginable  tenderneps, 
met.     What  need  had  they  of  words  to  say  they  loved? 


CHAPTER  VI. 

TUB  FOWLER  SNAEES   AGAIN   THE   BIRD  THAT  HAD  JUST  ESCAPED, 
AND  SETS  HIS  NETS  FOR  A  NEW  VICTIM. 

In  the  history  I  relate,  the  events  are  crowded  and  rapid  as 
those  of  the  drama.  I  write  of  an  epoch  in  which  days  sufficed 
to  ripen  the  ordinary  fruits  of  3-ears. 

It  was  with  this  resolution  that  he  passed  through  a  thick 
grove  in  the  city,  which  lay  between  his  house  and  that  of  lone, 
in  his  way  to  the  latter;  and  there  leaning  against  a  tree,  and 
gazing  on  the  ground,  he  came  unawares  on  the  young  priest 
of  Isis. 

"Apaecides!"  said  he — and  he  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on 
the  young  man's  shoulder. 

The  priest  started;  and  his  first  instinct  seemed  to  be  that  of 
flight.  "  Ylj  son,"  said  the  Egyx^tian,  "  what  has  chanced  that 
you  desire  to  shun  me  V" 

Apaecides  remaiued  silent  and  sullen,  looking  down  on  the 


8d  fHE  LAST  JDAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

earth,  as  hiS  lips  quivered,  and  liis  breast  heaved  with  emotioiL 

"Speak  to  me,  my  friend."  continued  the  Egyptian,  "speak. 
Something  burdens  thv  spirit.     AVhat  hast  thou  to  reveal?" 

"To  thee— nothing." 

"  And  why  is  it  to  me  thou  art  thus  unconfidential  ?" 

"  Because  thou  hast  Won  my  enemy." 

"Let  us  confer,"  said  Arbaces,  in  a  low  voice:  and  drawing 
the  reluctant  arm  of  tlio  priest  in  liis  own,  he  led  him  to  one  of 
the  seats  which  were  scattered  witliiu  the  grove.  They  sat  down 
— and  in  those  gloomy  forms  there  was  something  congenial  to 
the  shade  and  solitude  of  the  place. 

Aprecides  was  in  the  spring  of  his  years,  yet  he  seemed  to  have 
exliausted  even  more  of  life  than  tlie  Egyptian;  his  delicate  and 
regular  features  were  wan  and  colorless;  liis  eyes  were  hollow, 
and  shone  with  a  brilliant  and  feverish  glare;  his  frame  bowed 
prematurely,  and  in  his  hands,  which  were  small  to  effeminacy, 
the  blue  and  swollen  veins  indicated  the  lassitude  and  weakness 
of  the  relaxed  fibers.  You  saw  in  his  face  a  strong  resemblance 
to  lone,  but  the  expression  was  altogether  different  frorc  that 
majestic  and  spiritual  calm  which  breathed  so  divine  and  classi- 
cal a  repose  over  his  sister's  beaut}'.  In  her,  enthusiasm  was 
visible,  but  it  seemed  always  suppressed  and  restrained;  this 
made  the  charm  and  sentiment  of  her  countenance;  you  longed 
to  awaken  a  spirit  wliich  reposed,  but  evidently  did  not  sleep. 
In  Apa>cides  the  whole  aspect  betokened  the  fervor  and  passion 
of  his  temperament,  and  the  intellectual  portion  of  his  nature 
seemed,  by  the  wild  fire  of  his  eyes,  the  great  breadth  of  the 
temples  when  compared  with  the  hight  of  the  brow,  the  trem- 
bling restlessness  of  the  lips,  to  be  swayed  and  tyrannized  over 
by  the  imaginative  and  tiie  i;leal.  Fancy,  with  the  sister,  had 
stopped  short  at  the  golden  goal  of  poetry;  with  the  brother,  less 
liappy  and  less  restrained,  it  had  wandered  into  visions  more 
intangible  and  unembodied;  and  the  faculties  which  gave  genius 
to  the  ono  threatened  madness  to  the  other. 

"You  say  I  have  been  your  enemy,"  said  Arbaces.  "I  know 
the  cause  of  that  unjust  accusation ;  I  have  placed  you  amid 
the  priests  of  Isis — you  are  revolted  at  their  trickeries  and  Im- 
postures— you  think  that  I  too  have  deceived  you — the  purity 
of  your  mind  is  offended — you  imagine  I  am  one  of  the  deceit- 
ful  " 

"You  knew  the  juggUngs  of  that  impious  craft,"  answered 
Apaecides;  "  why  did  you  disguise  them  from  me?  "When  you 
excited  my  desire  to  devote  myself  to  tho  office  whoso  garb  !I 
wear,  you  spoke  of  the  lioly  life  of  men  resigning  themselves  to 
knowledge — you  have  given  me  for  com]ianions  an  ignorant  and 
sensual  herd,  who  have  no  knowled^re  but  that  of  the  grossest 
frauds — you  spoke  to  mo  of  men  sacrificing  the  earthlier  pleas- 
ures to  the  sublime  cultivation  of  virtue — you  place  me  among 
men  reeking  with  all  the  filthiuess  of  vice — you  s]X)ke  to  me  of 
the  friends,  the  enlightenei-s  of  our  common  kind— I  see  but 
their  cheats  and  dcluders  1  Oh  !  it  was  basely  done  1 — you  have 
robbed-me  of  the  glo-y  of  youth,  of  the  convictions  of  virtue,  of 
the  Siinctifying  thirst  after  wisdom.     Young  as  I  was,  rich,  fer- 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  91 

vent,  the  sunny  pleasures  of  earth  before  me,  I  resigned  all  with- 
out a  sigh,  nay,  with  happiness  and  exultation  in  the  thought 
that  I  resigned  them  for  the  abstruse  mysteries  of  diviner  wisdom, 
for  the  companionship  of  gods — for  the  revelations  of  Heaven — 
and  now — now " 

Convulsive  sobs  checked  the  priest's  voice;  he  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands,  and  large  tears  forced  themselves  through  the 
wasted  fingers,  and  ran  profusely  down  his  vest. 

"What  I  promised  to  thee,  that  will  I  give,  my  friend,  my 
pupil:  these  have  been  but  trials  to  thy  virtue — it  comes  fortlithe 
brigliter  for  thy  novitiate — think  no  more  of  those  dull  cheats — 
assort  no  more  with  those  menials  of  the  goddess,  the  atrienses 
of  her  hall — you  are  worthy  to  enter  into  the  penetralia.  I 
hencefoi-th  will  be  your  priest,  your  guide,  and  you  who  now 
curse  my  friendship  shall  live  to  bless  it." 

The  young  man  lifted  up  his  head  and  gazed  with  a  vacant 
and  wondering  stare  upon  the  Egyptian. 

*'  Listen  to  me,"  continued  Arbaces,  in  an  earaest  and  solemn 
voice,  casting  first  his  searching  eye  around  to  see  that  they  were 
still  alone.  "  From  Egypt  came  all  the  knowledge  of  the  world; 
from  Egypt  came  the  lore  of  Athens  and  the  profound  policy  of 
Crete;  from  Egypt  came  those  early  and  mysterious  tribes  which, 
(long  before  the  hordes  of  Eomulus  swept  over  the  plains  of 
Italy,  and  in  the  eternal  cycle  of  events  drove  back  civilization 
into  barbarism  and  darkness),  possessed  all  the  arts  of  %visdom 
and  the  graces  of  intellectual  lite.  From  Egypt  came  the  rites 
and  grandeur  of  that  solemn  Caere,  whose  inhabitants  taught 
their  iron  vanquishers  of  Rome  all  that  they  yet  know  of  ele- 
vated in  religion  and  sublime  in  worship.  And  how  deemest 
thou,  young  man,  that  that  dread  Egypt,  the  mother  of  count- 
less nations,  achieved  her  greatness  and  soared  to  her  cloud- 
clapped  eminence  of  wisdom — it  was  the  result  of  a  profound 
and  holy  policy.  Your  modern  nations  owe  your  greatness  to 
Egypt — Egypt  her  greatness  to  her  priests.  Rapt  in  themselves, 
coveting  a  sway  over  the  noblest  part  of  man,  his  soul  and  his 
belief,  those  ancient  ministers  of  God  were  inspired  with  the 
grandest  thought  that  ever  exalted  mortals.  From  the  revolu- 
tions of  the  stars,  from  the  seasons  of  the  earth,  from  the  round 
and  unvarying  circle  of  human  destinies,  they  devised  an  august 
allegory;  they  made  it  gross  and  palpable  to  the  vulgar  by  the 
signs  of  gods  and  goddesses,  and  that  which  in  reality  was  Gov- 
ernment they  named  Religion.  Isis  is  a  fable — start  not! — ^that 
for  which  Isis  is  a  type  is  a  reality,  an  immortal  being;  Isis  is 
nothing.  Nature,  which  she  represents,  is  the  mother  of  all 
things— dark,  ancient,  inscrutable,  save  to  the  gifted  few.  *  None 
among  mortals  hath  ever  lifted  up  my  veil,'  so  saith  the  Isis 
that  you  adore;  but  to  the  wise  that  veil  hathheeji  removed,  and 
we  have  stood  face  to  face  with  the  solemn  loveliness  of  Nature. 
The  priests  then  were  the  benefactors,  the  civilizers  of  mankind; 
tiTie,  they  were  also  cheats,  impostors  if  you  will.  But  think 
you,  young  man,  that  if  they  had  not  deceived  their  kind  tiiey 
could  have  served  them  ?  The  ignorant  and  sei'\ile  vulgar  must 
be  blinded  to  attain  their  proper  good;  they  would  not  believe  a 


8e  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

maxim— they  revere  an  oracle.  The  Emperor  of  Rome  sway* 
the  vast  and  various  tribes  of  eartli,  and  harmonizes  the  con- 
flicting and  disunited  elements;  tlienco  come  ]>eace,  order,  law, 
the  blessings  of  life.  Think  you  it  is  tlio  man,  the  emperor,  tbat 
thus  sways?  No;  it  is  tlie  pomp,  the  awe,  the  majesty  that  sur 
round  him — tha^o  are  his  impostures,  his  delusions;  our  oraclea 
and  our  divinations,  our  rites  and  our  ceremonies,  are  the  means 
of  our  sovereignty  and  the  engines  of  our  power.  They  are  th© 
same  means  to  the  same  end,  the  welfare  and  harmony  of  man- 
kind. You  listen  to  me  rapt  and  intent— the  light  begins  to  fall 
upon  you." 

ApsDcides  remained  silent,  but  the  changes  rapidly  passmg 
over  his  speaking  countenance  betrayed  the  effect  produced  upon 
him  by  the  words  of  the  Egyptian— words  made  tenfold  more 
eloquent  by  the  voice,  the  aspect,  and  the  manner  of  the  man. 

"While,  then,"  said  Arbaces,  "our  fathers  of  the  Nile  thus 
achieved  the  first  elements  by  whose  life  chaos  is  destroyed, 
namely,  the  obedience  of  the  multitude  for  the  few,  they  drew 
from  their  majestic  and  starred  meditations  that  wisdom  which 
was  no  delusion;  they  invented  the  codes  and  regularities  of  law 
— the  arts  and  glories  of  existence.     They  asked  belief;  they  re- 
turned the  gift  by  civilization.    Were  not  theii-  very  cheats  a  vir- 
tue?   Trust  me,  whosoever  in  yon  far  heavens  of  a  diviner  and 
more  l>eneficeut  nature  look  down  upon  our  world,  smile  approv- 
ingly on  the  wisdom  which  has  worked  such  ends.  But  you  wish 
me  to  apply  these  generalities  to  yourself.     I  hasten  to  obey  the 
wish.     The  altars  of  the  goddess  of  our  ancient  faith  nnist  be 
served,  and  served  too  by  others  tlian  the  stolid  and  soulless 
things  that  are  but  as  pegs  and  hooks  whereon  to  hang  the  fillet 
and  the  robe.  Remember  two  sayings  of  Sextusthe  Pythagorean, 
sayings  borrowed  from  the  lore  of  Egypt.     The  first  is,  '  Speak 
not  of  God  to  the  multitude;'  the  second  is,  *  The  man  worthy  of 
God  is  a  god  among  men.'    As  Genius  gave  to  the  ministers  of 
Egypt  worshi]),  that  empire  in  late  ages  so  fearfully  decayed, 
thiis  by  Genius  only  can  the  dominion  be  restored.    I  saw  in  you, 
ApjBcides,  a  pui)il  worthy  of  my  lessons— a  minister  worthy  of 
tlie  great  ends  wliicli  may  yet  be  wrought;  your  energy,  your 
I  talents,  your  purity  of  faith,  your  earnestness  of  enthusiasm,  all 
/fitted  you  for  that  caUing  which  demands  so  impenously  high 
and  ardent  qualities;  I  fanned,  therefore,  your  sacred  desires;  I 
/  stimulated  vou  to  the  step  you  have  taken.     But   you  blame  me 
/    that  I  did  not  revoal  to  you  tb.e  little  souls  and  the  juggling 
tricks  of  5'our  companions.     Had  I  done  so,  Ap:i?cidcs,  I  had  de- 
feated my  own  ol)j<'ct:  your  noble  nature  would  have  at  once  re- 
volted, and  Isis  would  have  lost  her  priest." 

A]>cTcid(>s  groaned  aloud.  The  Egyptian  continued  without 
heeding  tlie  interruption. 

"  I  placed  you,  ther'^fore,  without  preparation,  in  the  temple; 
I  left  vou  suddenly  to  discover  and  to  be  sickened  of  those  mum- 
meries which  ckizzle  the  herd.  I  desired  tliat  you  should  per- 
ceive liow  those  engines  are  moved  by  whi<h  the  fountain  that 
refreshes  the  world  casts  its  waters  in  the  air.  It  was  the  trial 
ordained  of  old  to  all  our  priests.    They  who  accustom  them- 


^HE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  3^ 

selves  to  the  impostures  of  the  \Tilgar,  are  left  to  practice  them; 
for  those,  like  you,  whose  higher  nature  demands  higher  pursuit, 
religion,  opens  more  godlike  secrets.  I  am  pleased  to  find  in  you 
the  character  I  had  expected.  You  have  taken  the  vows;  you 
cannot  recede.     Advance — I  will  be  your  guide." 

*'  And  what  wilt  thou  teach  me,  O  singiilar  and  fearful  man? 
New  cheats-  new " 

"No — I  have  thrown  thee  into  the  abyss  of  disbelief;  I  will 
lead  thee  now  to  the  eminence  of  faith.  Thou  hast  seen  the 
false  types;  thou  shalt  learn  now  the  realities  tliey  represent. 
There  is  no  shadow,  Apa^cides,  without  its  substance.  Come  to 
me  this  night.    Your  hand." 

Impressed,  excited,  bev/ildered  by  the  language  of  the  Egyp- 
tian, Apgecides  gave  him  his  hand   and  master  and  pupil  parted. 

It  was  true  that  for  Apa^cides  there  was  no  retreat.  He  had 
taken  the  vows  of  celibacy;  he  had  devoted  himself  to  a  life  that 
at  present  seemed  to  possess  all  the  austerities  of  fanaticism, 
without  any  of  the  consolations  of  belief.  It  was  natural  that  he 
should  yet  cling  to  a  yearning  desire  to  reconcile  himself  to  an 
irrevocable  career.  The  powerful  and  profound  mind  of  the 
Egyptian  yet  claimed  the  empu'eover  his  young  imagination;  ex- 
cited him  with  vagTie  conjecture,  and  kept  him  alternately  vibrat- 
ing between  hope  and  fear. 

Meanwhile  Arbaces  pursued  his  slow  and  stately  way  to  the 
house  of  lone.  As  he  entered  the  tablinum,  he  heard  a  voice 
from  the  porticos  of  the  peristyle  beyond,  which,  musical  as  it 
was,  sounded  displeasingly  on  his  ear— it  was  the  voice  of  the 
young  and  beautiful  Glaucus,  and  for  the  first  time  an  involuntary 
tiirill  of  jealousy  shot  through  the  breast  of  the  Egyptian.  On 
entering  the  j^ristyle,  he  found  Glaucus  seated  by  the  side  of 
lone.  The  fountain  in  the  odorous  garden  cast  up  its  silver  spray 
in  the  air,  and  kept  a  delicious  coolness  in  the  midst  of  the  sultry 
noon.  The  handmaids,  almost  invariably  attendant  on  lone,  Avho 
with  her  freedom  of  life  preserved  the  most  dehcate  modesty,  sat 
at  a  little  distance;  by  the  feet  of  Glaucus  lay  the  lyre  on  which 
he  had  been  playing  to  lone  one  of  the  Lesbian  airs.  The 
scene  —  the  group  before  Arbaces,  was  stamped  by  that 
peculiar  and  refined  ideality  of  poesy  which  we  yet,  not  erroneous- 
ly, imagine  to  be  the  distinction  of  the  ancients — the  marble 
columns,  the  vases  of  flowers,  the  statue,  white  and  tranquil, 
closing  every  vista;  and  above  all,  the  two  Living  forms,  from 
which  a  sculptor  might  have  caught  either  inspiration  or  de- 
spair! 

Arbaces,  pausing  for  a  moment,  gazed  on  the  pair  with  a  brow 
from  wliich  all  the  usual  stern  serenity  had  fled;  he  recovered 
himself  by  an  effort,  and  slowly  approached  them,  but  with  a  step 
so  soft  and  echoless,  that  even  the  attendants  heard  him  not; 
much  less  lone  and  her  lover. 

"  And  yet,"  said  Glaucus,  "it  is  only  before  we  love  that  we 
imagine  that  our  poets  have  truly  described  the  passion;  the  in- 
stant the  sun  rises,  all  the  stars  that  had  shone  in  his  absence  van- 
ish into  air.  The  poets  exist  only  in  the  night  of  the  heart;  they 
«,re  nothing  to  us  when  we  feel  the  full  glory  of  the  god." 


40  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIL 

•'  A  gentle  and  most  glowing  imago,  noble  Glaucus." 

Both  started,  and  recognized  behind  the  seat  of  lone  the  cold 
and  sarcastic  face  of  the  Egyptian. 

"  You  are  a  sudden  guest,"  said  Glaucus,  rising,  and  with  a 
forced  smile. 

"  So  dught  all  to  be  who  know  they  are  welcome,"  returned 
Arbaces,  seating  himself,  and  motioning  to  Glaucus  to  do  the 
same. 

"I  am  glad,"  said  lone,  "to  see  you  at  length  together,  for  you 
are  suited  to  each  other;  and  you  are  formed  to  be  friends." 

"Give  me  back  some  fifteen  years  of  life,"  repUed  the  Egyptian,  • 
•*  before  you  can  place  me  on  an  equality  with  GlaucuSc  Happy 
should  I  be  to  receive  his  friendship;  but  what  can  I  give  liim 
in  return?  Can  I  make  to  him  the  same  confidences  that  he 
would  repose  in  me — of  banquets  and  garlands — of  Parthian 
steeds,  and  the  chances  of  the  dice?  these  pleasures  suit  his  age, 
his  nature,  his  career;  they  are  not  for  mine." 

So  saying,  the  artful  Egyptian  looked  down  and  sighed;  but 
from  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  stole  a  glance  toward  lone,  to  see 
how  she  received  these  insinuations  of  the  pursuits  of  her  visitor. 
Her  countenance  did  not  satisfy  him.  Glaucus  slightly  coloring, 
hastened  gayly  to  reply.  Kor  was  he,  perhaps,  without  the  wish 
in  his  turn  to  disconcert  and  abash  the  Egyptian. 

"  You  are  right,  wise  Arbaces,"  said  he,  *'  we  can  esteem  each 
other,  but  we  cannot  be  friends.  My  banquets  lack  the  secret 
salt,  which,  according  to  rumor,  give  such  zest  to  your  own. 
And,  by  Hercules!  when  I  have  reached  your  age,  if  I,  like  you, 
may  think  it  wise  to  pursue  the  pleasures  of  manhood,  like  you, 
I  shall  be  doubtless  sarcastic  on  the  gallantries  of  youth." 

The  Egyptian  raised  his  eyes  to  Glaucus  with  a  sudden  and 
piercing  glance. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  he,  coldly,  "but  it  is  the  cus^ 
tom  to  consider  that  wit  lies  in  obscurity."  He  turned  from 
Glaucus  as  he  spoke,  with  a  scarcelj'  perceptible  sneer  of  con- 
tempt, and  after  a  moment's  pause  addressed  himself  to  lone. 
"  I  have  not,  beautiful  lone,"  said  he,  "  been  fortunate  enough 
to  find  you  witliin  doors  the  last  two  or  three  times  that  I  have 
visited  your  vestibule." 

"  The  smoothness  of  the  sea  has  tempted  me  much  from  home," 
replied  lone,  with  a  little  emliarrassment. 

The  embarrassment  did  not  escape  but  Arbaces;  without  seem- 
ing to  heed  it,  he  replied  with  a  smile:  "  You  know  the  old  poet 
Bays  that  '  Women  should  keep  within  doors,  and  there  con- 
verse.' " 

"  The  poet  was  a  cynic,"  said  Glaucus,  "  and  hated  women." 
"He  spoke  according  to  the  custom  of  the  country,  and  that 
country  is  your  boasted  Greece." 

"  To  different  periods  different  customs.  Had  our  forefathers 
known  lone,  they  would  have  made  a  different  law.'' 

"  Did  you  learn  these  pretty  gallantries  at  Rome?*'  said  Arbaces, 
with  ill-suppressed  emotion. 

"  One  certainly  would  not  go  for  gallantries  to  Egypt,"  retorted 
Glaucup,  playing  carelessly  with  his  chain. 


f:E[E  Last  days  of  pompeil  41 

**  Come,  come,"  said  lone,  hastening  to  interrupt  a  conversation 
which  she  saw,  to  her  great  distress,  was  so  httle  likely  to  cement 
the  intimacy  she  had  desired  to  effect  between  Glaucus  and  her 
friend,  "  Arbaces  must  not  be  so  hard  upon  his  poor  pupil.  An 
orphan,  and  without  a  mother's  care,  I  may  be  to  blame  for  the 
independent  and  almost  masculine  liberty  of  life  that  I  have 
chosen,  yet  it  is  not  greater  than  the  Roman  women  are  accus- 
tomed to — ^it  is  not  greater  than  the  Grecian  ought  to  be.  Alas! 
is  it  only  to  be  among  men  that  freedom  and  virtue  are  to  be 
deemed  united?  Why  should  the  slavery  that  destroys  you  be 
considered  the  only  method  to  preserve  us?  Ah!  believe  me,  it 
has  been  the  great  error  of  men — and  one  that  has  worked  bitterly 
on  their  destinies — to  imagine  that  the  nature  of  women  is  (I  will 
not  say  inferior,  that  maybe  so,  but)  so  different  from  their  own, 
in  making  laws  unfavorable  to  the  intellectual  advancement  of 
women.  Have  they  not,  in  so  doing,  made  laws  against  their 
children,  whom  women  are  to  rear? — against  the  husbands,  of 
whom  women  are  to  be  the  friends,  nay,  sometimes  the  ad- 
visers?" lone  stopped  short  suddenly,  and  her  face  was  suffused 
with  the  most  enchanting  blushes.  She  feared  lest  her  enthusiasm 
had  led  her  too  far;  yet  she  feared  the  austere  Arbaces  less  than 
the  courteous  Glaucus,  for  she  loved  the  last,  and  it  was  not  the 
custom  of  the  Greeks  to  allow  their  women  (at  least  such  of  their 
women  as  they  most  honored)  the  same  liberty  and  the  same 
station  as  those  of  Italy  enjoyed.  She  felt,  therefore,  a  thrill  of 
dehght  as  Glaucus  earnestly  replied: 

"  Ever  mayst  thou  think  thus,  lone — ever  be  your  pure  heart 
your  unerring  guide!  Happy  it  had  been  for  Greece  if  she  had 
given  to  the  chaste  the  same  intellectual  charms  that  are  so 
celebrated  among  the  less  worthy  of  her  women.  No  state  falls 
from  freedom — from  knowledge,  while  your  sex  smile  only  on 
the  free,  and  by  appreciating,  encourage  the  wise." 

Arbaces  was  silent,  for  it  was  neither  his  part  to  sanction  the 
sentiment  of  Glaucus,  nor  to  condemn  that  of  lone;  and,  after  a 
short  and  embarrassed  conversation,  Glaucus  took  his  leave  of 
lone. 

When  he  was  gone,  Arbaces,  drawing  his  seat  nearer  to  the  fair 
Neapolitan's,  said,  in  those  bland  and  subdued  tones  in  which  he 
knew  so  well  how  to  veil  the  mingled  art  and  fierceness  of  liis 
character: 

"Think  not,  my  sweet  pupil,  if  so  I  may  call  you,  that  I  wish 
to  shackle  that  liberty  you  adorn  while  you  assume;  but  which, 
if  not  greater,  as  you  rightly  observe,  than  that  possessed  by  the 
Roman  women,  must  at  least  be  accompanied  by  great  circum- 
spection, when  arrogated  by  one  unmarried.  Continue  to  draw 
crowds  of  th  gay,  the  brilhant,  the  wise  themselves,  to  our  feet 
— continue  to  charm  them  with  the  conversation  of  an  Aspasia, 
tbe  music  of  an  Erinna — but  reflect,  at  least,  on  tiiose  sensorioua 
tongues  which  can  so  easily  blight  the  tender  reputation  of  a 
maiden;  and  while  you  provoke  admiration,  give,  I  beseech  you, 
no  victory  to  envy." 

**  What  mean  you,  Arbaces?"  said  lone,  in  an  alarmed  an<i 


42  THE  LAST  t>A  TS  OF  POMPEIT. 

trembling  voice;  "I  know  you  are  my  friend,  that  you  desird 
only  my  honor  and  my  welfare.    What  is  it  you  would  say?" 

"Your  friend — ah,  how  sincerelyl  May  I  speak  then  as  a 
friend,  without  reserve  and  without  offense?" 

"  I  beseech  you  to  do  so." 

*' This  young  profligate,  this  Glaucus,  how  didst  thou  know 
him?  Hast  thou  seen  him  often?"  And  as  Arbaces  spoke,  h« 
fixed  his  gaze  steadfastly  upon  lone;  as  if  he  sought  to  penetrate 
into  her  soul. 

Recoiling  before  that  gaze,  with  a  strange  fear  which  she  could 
not  explain,  the  Neapolitan  answered  with  confusion  and  hesita- 
tion— "He  was  brought  to  my  house  as  a  countryman  of  my 
father's,  and  I  may  say  of  mine.  I  have  known  him  only  within 
the  last  week  or  so;  but  why  these  questions?" 

"Forgive  me,"  said  Arbaces;  *' I  thought  you  might  have 
known  him  longer.    Base  insinuator  that  he  isl" 

'*  Howl  what  mean  you?    Why  the  term?" 

"  It  matters  not;  let  me  not  rouse  your  indignation  against  one 
who  does  not  deserve  so  great  an  honor." 

'*I  implore  you  speak.  What  has  Glaucus  insinuated?  or  ra- 
ther, in  what  do  you  suppose  he  has  offended?" 

Smothering  his  resentment  at  the  last  part  of  Tone's  question, 
Arbaces  continued — "  You  know  his  pursuits,  his  companions, 
his  habits;  the  conissatio  and  the  alea  (the  revel  and  the  dice) 
make  his  occupation;  and  among  the  associates  of  vice,  how  can 
he  dream  of  virtue?" 

*'  Still  you  speak  riddles.  By  the  godsl  I  entreat  you,  say  the 
worst  at  once.^' 

*•  Well,  then,  it  must  be  so.  Kjiow,  my  lone,  that  it  was  but 
yesterday  that  Glaucus  boasted  openlj  — yes,  in  the  public  baths, 
of  your  love  to  him.  He  said  it  amused  liini  to  take  advantage 
of  it.  Nay,  I  will  do  him  justice,  he  praised  your  beauty.  Who 
could  deny  it?  But  he  laughed  scornfully  when  his  Clodius,  or 
his  Lepidus,  asked  him  if  he  loved  you  enough  for  marriage,  and 
when  he  purposed  to  adorn  his  door-posts  \vith  flowers?" 

"  Impossible!    How  heard  you  this  base  slander?" 

'•  Nay,  would  you  have  me  to  relate  to  you  all  the  comments 
of  the  insolent  coxcombs  with  which  the  story  has  circled  tlirough 
the  town?  Be  assured  that  I  myself  disbelieved  at  first,  andthat 
I  have  now  painfully  been  convinced  by  several  ear-witnesses  of 
the  truth  of  what  I  have  reluctantly  told  thee." 

lone  sank  back,  and  her  face  was  whiter  than  the  pillar  against 
which  she  leaned  for  support. 

"  I  own  it  vexed — it  irritated  me,  to  hear  your  name  thus  light- 
ly pitched  from  lip  to  lip,  like  some  mere  danciug-girl's  fame.  I 
hastened  this  morning  to  seek  and  to  warn  you.  I  found  Glau- 
cus here.  I  was  stung  from  my  self-possession.  I  could  not 
conceal  my  feelings;  nay,  I  was  uncourteous  in  thy  presence. 
Canst  thou  forgive  thy  friend,  lone?" 

lone  plaoed  her  hand  in  his,  but  replied  not. 

"Think  no  more  of  this,"  said  he;  "  but  let  it  be  a  warning 
voice,  to  tell  thee  how  much  prudence  thy  lot  requires.  It  can 
not  hurt  thee,  lone,  for  a  moment;  for  a  gay  thing  15 ke  this 


THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII.  43 

could  never  have  been  honored  by  even  a  serious  thought  from 
lone.  These  insults  only  wound  when  they  came  from  one  we 
love;  far  different  is  he  indeed  whom  the  lofty  lone  shall  stoop 
to  love." 

"Love!"  muttered  lone,  with  a  hysterical  laugh.  "Ay,  in- 
deed." 

It  is  not  without  interest  to  observe  in  those  remote  times,  and 
under  a  social  system  so  widely  different  from  the  modem,  the 
same  small  causes  that  ruffle  and  interrupt  the  "  course  of  love," 
which  operate  so  commonly  at  this  day — the  same  inventive 
jealousy,  the  same  cunning  slander,  the  same  crafty  and  fabricat- 
ed retailings  of  petty  gossip,  which  so  often  now  suffice  to  break 
the  ties  of  the  truest  love,  and  counteract  the  tenor  of  circum- 
stances most  apparently  propitious.  When  the  bark  sails  on 
over  the  smoothest  wave,  the  fable  tells  us  of  the  diminutive  fish 
that  can  cling  to  the  keel  and  arrest  its  progress;  so  is  it  ever 
with  the  great  passions  of  mankind;  and  we  should  paint  life  but 
ill  if,  even  in  times  the  most  prodigal  of  romance,  and  of  the 
romance  of  which  we  must  largely  avail  ourselves,  we  do  not 
also  describe  the  mechanism  of  those  trivial  and  household 
springs  of  mischief  which  we  see  every  day  at  work  in  our 
chambers  and  at  our  hearths.  It  is  in  these,  the  lesser  intrigues 
of  life,  that  we  mostly  find  ourselves  at  home  with  the  past. 

Most  cunningly  had  the  Egyptian  appealed  to  lone's  ruling 
foible — most  dexterously  had  he  applied  the  poisoned  dart  to  her 
pride.  He  fancied  he  had  arrested  what  he  hoped,  from  the  short- 
ness of  the  time  she  had  known  Glaucus,  was,  at  most,  but  an 
incipient  fancy ;  and  hastening  to  change  the  subject,  he  now  led 
her  to  talk  of  her  brother.  Their  conversation  did  not  last  long. 
He  left  her,  resolved  not  again  tc  trust  so  much  to  absence,  but 
to  visit — to  watch  her — every  day. 

No  sooner  Jiad  his  shadow  glided  from  her  presence,  than  wo- 
Joan's  pride— her  sex's  dissimulation — deserted  his  intended  vio- 
tim,  and  th©  haughty  lone  burst  into  passionate  tears. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

THE  GAT  T-UTE  OF  THE  POMPEIAN  LOUNGER.— A  MINIATUIIE  LIKE- 
NESS OF  THE  ROMAN  BATHS. 

When  Glaucus  left  lone,  he  felt  as  if  he  trod  upon  air.  In  the 
interview  with  which  he  had  just  been  blessed,  he  had  for  the 
first  time  gathered  from  her  distinctly  that  his  love  was  not  un- 
welcome to,  and  would  not  be  unrewarded  by,  her.  This  hope 
filled  him  with  rapture  for  which  earth  and  heaven  seemed  too 
narrow  to  afford  a  vent.  Unconscious  of  the  enemy  he  had  left 
behind,  and  forgetting  not  only  his  taunts  but  his  very  existence, 
Glaucus  passed  through  the  gay  streets,  repeating  to  himself,  in 
the  wantonness  of  joy,  the  music  of  the  soft  air  to  which  lone 
had  listened  with  such  intentness;  and  now  he  entered  the  Street 
«f  Fortune,  with  its  raised  foot-path — its  houses  painted  without, 
and  the  open  doors  admitting  the  view  of  the  glowing  frescoes 
witliin.  Each  end  of  the  street  was  adorned  with  a  triumphal 
arch;  and  as  Glaucus  now  came  before  the  Temple  of  Fortune^ 


44  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPETT. 

the  jutting  portico  of  that  beautiful  fane  (which  is  supposed  to 
have  been  built  by  one  of  the  family  of  Cicero — perhaps  by  thd 
author  himself)  imparted  a  dignilied  and  venerable  feature  to  tlie 
scene  otherwise  more  brilliant  than  lofty  in  its  character.  That 
temple  was  one  of  the  most  graceful  specimens  of  Roman  archi- 
tecture. It  was  raised  on  a  somewhat  lofty  podium ;  and  between 
two  flights  of  steps  ascending  to  a  i)latform  stood  the  altar  of  the 
goddess.  From  this  platform  another  flight  of  broad  stairs  led  to 
the  portico,  from  the  hight  of  whose  fluted  columns  hung  fes- 
toons of  the  richest  flow^ers.  On  either  side  the  extremities  of  the 
temple  were  placed  statues  of  Grecian  workmansliip  ;  and  at  a 
little  distance  from  the  temple  rose  the  trimnphal  arch  crowned 
with  an  equestrian  statue  of  Caligula,  which  was  flanked  by  tro- 
phies of  bronze.  In  the  space  before  the  temple  a  lively  throng 
were  assembled — some  seated  on  benches  and  discussing  the  poli- 
tics of  the  empire,  some  conversing  on  the  approaching  spectacle 
of  the  amphitheater.  One  knot  of  young  men  were  lauding  a 
new  beauty,  another  discussing  the  merits  of  the  last  play;  a  third 
group,  more  stricken  in  age,  were  speculating  on  the  chance  of 
the  trade  with  Alexandria,  and  amid  these  were  many  merchants 
in  the  Eastern  costume,  whose  loose  and  peculiar  robes,  painted 
and  gemmed  slippers,  and  composed  and  serious  coimtenances, 
formed  a  striking  contrast  to  the  tunicked  forms  and  animated 
gestures  of  the  Italians. 

For  that  impatient  and  lively  people  had,  as  now,  a  language 
distinct  from  speech — a  language  of  signs  and  motions  inexpres- 
sibly significant  and  vivacious:  their  descendants  retain  it,  and 
the  learned  Jorio  iiath  written  a  most  entertaining  work  on  that 
species  of  hieroglyphical  gesticulation. 

Sauntering  through  the  crowd,  Glaucus  soon  found  himself 
amid  a  group  of  his  merry  and  dissipated  friends. 

**  Ah!"  said  Sallust,  with  a  sigh,  *'it  is  a  lustrum  since  I  saw 
you." 

"And  how  have  you  spent  the  lustrum?  "What  new  dishes 
have  you  discovered?" 

"I  have  been  scientific,"  returned  Sallust,  "and  have  made 
some  experiments  in  the  feeding  of  lampreys;  I  confess  I  despair 
of  bringing  them  to  the  perfection  which  our  Roman  ancestors 
attained." 

**  J.Iiserablc  man.     And  why?" 

••  Because,"'  returned  Sallust,  with  a  sigh,  *'  it  is  no  longer  law- 
ful to  give  tliem  a  slave  to  eat.  I  am  very  often  tempted  to  nudce 
away  witli  a  very  fat  carptor  (l^utler)  whom  I  possess,  and  i)op 
him  slyly  into  the  reservoir.  He  would  give  the  fish  a  most 
oleaginous  flavor!  But  slaves  are  not  slaves  now-a-days,  and 
have  no  sympathy  Avith  their  masters  interest— or  Davus  would 
destroy  himself  to  oblige  me!" 

"  What  news  from  Rome?"  said  Lepidus,  as  he  languidly  joined 
the  group. 

"  The  emperor  has  been  giving  a  splendid  supper  to  the  sena- 
tors," aiiswcrod  Sallust. 

"lie  is  a  good  creature,"  quoth  Lepidus;  "they  say  he  never 
sends  a  man  away  without  granting  his  request." 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  45 

"Perhaps  he  would  let  me  kill  a  slave  for  my  reservoir?'' re- 
turned Sallust,  eagerly. 

"  Not  unlikely,"  said  Glaucus;  "for  he  who  grants  a  favor  to 
one  Roman,  must  always  do  it  at  the  expense  of  another.  Be 
sure,  that  for  every  smile  Titus  has  caused,  a  hundred  eyes  have 
wept." 

"Long  live  Titus!"  cried  Pansa,  overhearing  the  emperor's 
name  as  he  swept  patronizingly  through  the  crowd,  "  he  has 

Eromised  my  brother  a  qusestorship,  because  he  had  rim  through 
is  fortune." 

"And  wishes  now  to  enrich  himself  among  the  people,  my 
t*ansa,"  said  Glaucus. 

"  Exactly  so,"  said  Pansa. 

"  That  is  putting  the  people  to  some  use,"  said  Glaucus. 

"  To  be  sure, "  returned  Pansa.  ' '  Well,  I  must  go  and  look  after 
the  serarium — it  is  a  little  out  of  repair;"  and  followed  by  a  long 
train  of  clients,  distinguished  from  the  rest  of  the  throng  by  the 
togas  they  wore,  for  togas,  once  the  sign  of  freedom  in  a  citizen^ 
were  now  the  badge  of  a  servility  to  a  patron),  the  sedile  fidgeted 
fussily  away. 

"  Poor  Pansa  I"  said  Lepidus  ;  "he  never  has  time  for  pleasure. 
Thank  Heaven  I  am  not  an  sedile  !" 

"Ah,  Glaucus  I  how  are  you?  gay  as  ever!"  said  Clodius 
joining  the  group. 

"  Are  you  come  to  sacrifice  to  Fortune  ?"  said  Sallust. 

"  I  sacrifice  to  her  every  night,"  retui-ned  the  gamester. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it.     No  man  has  made  more  victims  !" 

"  By  Hercules,  a  biting  speech  ! "  cried  Glaucus,  laughing. 

"The  dog's  letter  is  never  out  of  your  mouth,  Sallust,"  said 
Clodius,  angrily ;  "  you  are  always  snarling." 

"  I  may  as  well  have  the  dog's  letter  in  my  mouth,  since, 
whenever  I  play  with  you,  I  have  the  dog's  throw  in  my  hand," 
returned  Sallust. 

"Hist!"  said  Glaucus,  taking  a  rose  from  a  flower-girl,  who 
stood  beside. 

"  The  rose  is  the  token  of  silence,"  replied  Sallust,  "  but  I  love 
only  to  see  it  at  the  supper-table." 

"Talking  of  that,  Diomed  gives  a  gi-and  feast  next  week," 
said  Sallust;  "are  you  invited,  Glaucus?" 

"  Yes,  I  received  an  invitation  this  morning." 

"And  I,  too,"  said  Sallust,  drawing  a  square  piece  of  papyrus 
from  his  girdle  :  "  I  see  that  he  asks  us  an  hour  earlier  than 
usual :  an  earnest  of  something  sumptuous." 

"  Oh  I  ho  is  as  rich  as  Croesus,"  said  Clodius  ;  "  and  his  bill  of 
fare  is  as  long  as  an  epic." 

"  Well, let  us  to  the  baths,"  said  Glaucus  :  "this  is  the  time 
when  all  the  world  is  there  ;  and  Fulvius,  whom  you  admire  so 
much,  is  going  to  read  us  his  last  ode." 

The  young  men  assented  readily  to  the  proposal,  and  they 
strolled  to  the  baths. 

Although  the  public  thermae,  or  baths,  were  instituted  rather 
for  the  poorer  citizens  than  the  wealthy  (for  the  last  had  baths 
in  their  own  houses),  yet,  to  the  crowds  of  all  ranks  who  r©r 


46  TBE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

Borted  to  them,  it  was  a  fiiYorite  place  for  conversatiou,  and  fo- 
that  indolent  lounging  so  dear  to  gay  and  thouglitlcss  people. 
The  baths  at  Pompeii  differed,  of  course,  in  i)lan  and  construc- 
tion from  the  vast  and  complicated  thermeo  of  Rome  ;  and,  in- 
deed, it  seems  that  in  each  city  of  the  empire  there  was  always 
Bome  slight  modification  of  arrangement  in  the  general  arcliir 
tecture  of  the  public  baths.  This  mightily  puzzles  tlie  learned — 
as  if  architects  and  fashion  were  not  capricious  before  the  nine- 
teenth century  I  Our  party  entered  by  the  in-iucii)al  porch  in 
the  Street  of  Fortune.  At  the  wing  of  the  portico  sat  the  keeper 
of  the  baths,  with  his  two  boxes  before  him,  one  for  the  money 
he  received,  one  for  the  tickets  he  disi:K3nsed.  Round  the  walls 
of  the  portico  were  seats  crowded  with  persons  of  all  ranks; 
while  others,  as  the  regimen  of  the  jjliysicians  prescribed,  were 
walking  briskly  to  and  fro  the  portico,  stojjping  every  now  and 
then  to  gaze  on  the  innumerable  notices  of  shows,  games,  sales, 
exliibitions,  which  were  painted  or  inscribed  upon  the  walls. 
The  general  subject  of  conversation  was,  however,  the  spectacle 
announced  in  the  ampliitheater;  and  each  new-comer  was  fas- 
tened upon  by  a  group  eager  to  know  if  Pompeii  had  been  so 
fortunate  as  to  produce  some  monstrous  criminal,  some  happy 
case  of  sacrilege  or  of  murder,  which  would  allow  the  asdiles  to 
provide  a  man  for  tho  jaws  of  the  lion:  all  other  more  common 
exhibitions  seemed  dull  and  tame  when  compared  with  the  pos- 
sibility of  this  fortunate  occurrence. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  a  jolly-looking  man,  who  was  a  goldsmith, 
"  I  think  the  emperor,  if  he  is  as  good  as  they  say,  might  have 
sent  us  a  Jew." 

♦'Why  not  take  one  of  the  new  sect  of  Nazarenes?*'  said  a 

Jhilosopher.  "I  am  not  cruel:  but  an  atheist,  who  denies 
upiter  himself,  deserves  no  mercy." 

"  I  care  not  how  many  gods  a  man  may  like  to  believe  in," 
said  the  goldsmith;  "  but  to  deny  all  gods  is  something  mon- 
strous." 

"Yet  I  fancy,"  said  Glaucus,  "that  these  people  are  not 
absolutely  atheists.  I  am  told  that  they  believe  in  a  god — nay, 
in  a  future  state." 

"Quite  a  mistake,  my  dear  Glaucus,"  said  the  philosopher. 
**  I  have  conferred  with  them — they  laughed  in  my  face  when  I 
talked  of  Pluto  and  Hades." 

"O  ye  gods!"  exclaimed  the  goldsmith,  in  horror;  "are  there 
any  of  these  wretches  in  Pompeii?" 

"  I  know  there  ar(3  a  few:  but  they  meet  so  privately  that  it  is 
impossible  to  discover  who  they  are." 

As  Glaucus  turned  away,  a  sculptor,  wlio  was  a  great  en- 
thusiast in  his  art,  looked  after  liim  admiringl5\ 

"All!"  said  lie,  "if  we  could  get  Jiim  on  the  arcn?., — there 
would  be  a  model  for  you!  Y\liat  limbs!  wljat'aheaul  ho  ought 
to  have  been  a  glndiatOr!  A  subject — a  subject — worthy  of  our 
artl  Why  don't  they  give  hiui  to' the  lion?" 

Meanwhile  Fuhius,  tlic  Roman  poet,  whom  his  contemporaries 
declared  iuiniortal,  and  who,  but  for  this  history,  would  never 
have  been  heard  of  in  our  neglectful  age,  came  eagerly  up  to 


i'HE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPMl  4? 

Glaucus:  "  Oh,  my  Athenian,  my  Glaucus,  you  hare  come  to 
hear  my  ode!  That  is  indeed  an  honor;  you,  a  Greek — to  whoni 
the  very  language  of  common  life  is  poetry.  How  I  thank  you! 
It  is  but  a  trifle;  but  if  I  secure  your  approbation,  perhaps  I 
may  get  an  introduction  to  Titus.  Oh,  Glaucus!  a  poet  without  a 
patron  is  an  amphora  without  a  label;  the  wine  may  be  good, 
but  nobody  will  laud  it!  And  what  says  Pythagoras? — 'Frank- 
incense tothe  gods,  but  praise  to  man.''  A  patron,  then,  is  the 
poet's  priest:  he  procures  him  the  incense,  and  obtains  hun 
his  believers." 

"  But  all  Pompeii  is  your  patron,  and  every  portico  an  altar  in 
your  praise." 

"Ah!  the  poor  Pompeians  are  very  civil — they  love  to  honor 
merit.  But  they  are  only  the  inhabitants  of  a  petty  town — 
spero  meliora!   Shall  we  wdthin?" 

"  Certainly;  for  we  lose  time  till  we  hear  your  poem." 

At  this  instant  there  was  a  rush  of  some  twenty  persons  from 
the  baths  into  the  portico;  and  a  slave  stationed  at  the  door  of  a 
small  corridor  now  admitted  the  poet,  Glaucus,  Clodius,  and  a 
troop  of  the  bard's  other  friends,  into  the  passage. 

"A  poor  place  this,  compared  with  the  Roman  thermae!"  said 
Lepidus,  disdainfully. 

"  Yet  is  there  some  taste  in  the  ceiling,"  said  Glaucus,  who  was 
in  a  mood  to  be  pleased  with  everything,  pointing  to  the  stars 
which  studded  the  roof. 

Lepidus  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  was  too  languid  to  reply. 

They  now  entered  a  somewhat  spacious  chamber,  which  served 
for  the  purposes  of  the  apoditerium  (that  is,  a  place  where  the 
bathers  prepared  themselves  for  their  luxurious  ablutions).  The 
vaulted  ceiling  was  raised  from  a  cornice,  glowingly  colored  with 
motley  and  grotesque  paintings;  the  ceiling  itself  was  paneled  in 
white  compartments  bordered  with  crimson;  the  unsullied  and 
shining  floor  was  paved  with  white  mosaics,  and  along  the  walls 
were  ranged  benches  for  the  accommodation  of  the  loiterers. 
This  chamber  did  not  possess  the  numerous  and  spacious  win- 
dows which  Vitruvius  attributes  to  his  more  magnificent  frigida- 
rium.  The  Pompeians,  as  all  the  southern  Italians,  were  fond  of 
banishing  the  light  of  their  sultry  skies,  and  combined  in  their 
voluptuous  associations  the  idea  of  luxury  with  darkness.  Two 
windows  of  glass  alone  admitted  the  soft  and  shaded  ray;  and 
the  compartment  in  which  one  of  these  casements  was  placed 
was  adorned  with  a  large  rehef  of  the  destruction  of  the  Titans. 

In  this  apartment  Fulvius  seated  himself  with  a  magisterial 
air,  and  his  audience,  gathering  round  him,  encouraged  him  to 
commence  his  recital. 

The  poet  did  not  require  much  pressing.  He  drew  forth  from 
his  vest  a  roll  of  papyrus,  and  after  hemming  three  times,  as 
much  to  command  silence  as  to  clear  his  voice,  he  began  that 
wonderful  ode,  of  which,  to  the  great  mortification  of  the  author 
of  this  history,  no  single  verse  can  be  discovered. 

By  the  plaudits  he  received,  it  was  doubtless  worthy  of  his 
fame;  and  Glaucus  was  the  only  listener  who  did  not  find  it  eX' 
eel  the  best  odes  of  Horace, 


48  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII 

The  poem  concluded,  those  who  took  only  the  cold  bath  begafl 
to  undress;  they  suspended  their  garments  on  liooks  fastened  in 
the  wall,  receiving,  according  to  their  condition,  either  from 
their  ovm  slaves  or  those  of  the  therraa?,  loose  robes  in  exchange, 
withdrew  into  that  graceful  and  circular  building  which  yet  ex- 
ists, to  shame  the  unlaving  posterity  of  the  south. 

The  more  luxurious  departed  by  another  door  to  the  tepidari- 
um,  a  place  which  was  heated  to  a  voluptuous  warmth,  pai'tly 
by  a  movable  fire-place,  principally  by  a  suspended  pavement, 
beneath  which  was  conducted  the  caloric  of  the  laconicum. 

Here  this  portion  of  the  intended  bathers,  after  unrobing  them- 
belves,  remained  for  some  time  enjoying  the  artificial  warmth  of 
the  luxurious  air.  And  this  room,  as  befitted  its  important  rank 
in  the  long  process  of  ablution,  was  more  richly  and  elaborately 
decorated  than  the  rest;  the  arched  roof  was  beautifully  carved 
and  painted;  the  windows  above,  of  gi'ound  glass,  admitted  but 
Avandering  and  uncertain  rays;  below  the  massive  cornices  were 
rows  of  figures  in  massive  and  bold  relief;  the  walls  glowed, 
with  crimson,  the  pavement  was  skilfully  tesselated  in  white 
mosaics.  Here  the  habituated  bathers,  men  who  bathed  seven 
times  a  day,  w^ould  remain  in  a  state  of  enervate  and  speechless 
lassitude,  either  before  or  (mostly)  after  the  water  bath;  and 
many  of  these  victims  of  the  pursuit  of  health  turned  their  list- 
less eyes  on  the  new-comers,  recognizing  their  friends  with  a 
nod,  but  dreading  the  fatigue  of  conversation. 

From  this  place  the  party  again  diverged,  according  to  their 
several  fancies,  some  to  the  sudatorium,  w^hich  answered  the 
purpose  of  our  vapor  batlis,  and  thence  to  the  warm  bath  itself; 
those  more  accustomed  to  exercise,  and  capable  of  dispensing 
with  so  cheap  a  purchase  of  fatigue,  resorted  at  once  to  the  cali- 
darium,  or  water  bath. 

In  order  to  comjilete  this  sketch,  and  give  to  the  reader  an  ad- 
equate notion  of  this,  tlie  main  luxury  of  the  ancients,  we  will 
accompany  Lepidus,  wlio  regularly  underwent  the  whole  pro- 
cess, save  only  the  cold  bath,  which  liad  gone  lately  out  of  fash- 
ion. Being  then  gradually  warmed  in  the tepidarium,  which  haa 
just  been  described,  the  delicate  steps  of  the  Fompeiau  elegant 
were  conducted  to  the  sudatorium.  Here  let  the  reader  de]iict  to 
himself  the  gradual  process  of  the  vapor  bath,  accompanied  by 
an  exhalation  of  spicy  perfumes. 

After  our  bather  had  undergone  this  operation,  he  was  seized 
by  liis  slaves,  who  alwavs  awaited  him  at  the  baths,  and  the 
dews  of  heat  were  removed  by  a  kind  of  scraper,  whicli  (by  the 
way)  a  modern  traveler  has  gravely  declared  to  be  used  only  to 
remove  the  dirt,  not  one  particle  of  which  could  ever  sett-^e  on 
the  polished  skin  of  the  practiced  bather.  Tiience,  somewhat 
cooled,  he  passed  into  the  water-bath,  over  which  fresh  perfumes 
were  profusely  scattered,  and  on  en.erging  from  the  opposite 
part  of  the  room,  a  cooling  shower  })layed  over  his  head  and 
form.  Then  wrapping  himself  in  a  light  rol)e,  he  returaed  once 
more  to  the  tepidarium,  where  he  found  Glaucus,  who  had  not 
encountered  the  suditorium;  and  now,  the  main  delight  and  ex- 
travagance of  the  bath  commenced.    Their  slaves  anointed  tho 


THE  LA&T  If  A  FS  GF  POMPEItk  49 

|f>athers  from  the  phials  of  gold,  cf  alabaster,  or  of  crystal,  stud" 
ded  with  profusest  gems,  and  containing  the  rarest  unguents 
gathered  from  all  quarters  of  the  world.  The  number  of  these 
smegmata  used  by  the  wealthy  would  fill  a  modern  volume — 
especially  if  the  volume  were  printed  by  a  fashionable  publisher; 
Amoracinum,  Megalium,  Nardam — omne  quod  exit  in  ttm:  while 
soft  music  played  in  an  adjacent  chamber,  and  such  as  used  the 
bath  in  moderation,  refreshed  and  restored  by  the  grateful  cere- 
mony, conversed  with  all  the  zest  and  freshness  of  rejuvenated 
life. 

"Blessed  be  he  who  invented  baths!"  said  Glaucus,  stretching 
himself  along  one  of  those  bronze  seats  (then  covered  with  soft 
cusliions)  which  the  visitor  to  Pompeii  sees  at  this  day  in  that 
same  tepidarium.  "Whether  he  were  Hercules  or  Bacchus,  be 
deserved  deification." 

"But  tell  me,"  said  a  corpulent  citizen,  who  was  groaning 
and  wheezing  under  the  operation  of  being  rubbed  down,  "tell 
me,  O  Glaucus! — evil  chance  to  thy  hands,  O  slave!  why  so 
rough? — tell  me — ugh — ugh! — are  the  baths  at  Rome  really  so 
magnificent?"  Glaucus  turned,  and  recognized  Diomed,  though 
not  without  some  difl&culty,  so  red  and  so  inflamed  were  the  good 
man's  cheeks  by  the  sudatory  and  the  scraping  he  had  so  lately 
undergone.  "  I  fahcy  they  must  be  a  great  deal  finer  than  these. 
Eh?"    Suppressing  a  smile,  Glaucus  replied. 

' '  Imagine  all  Pompeii  converted  into  baths,  and  you  will  then 
form  a  notion  of  the  size  of  the  imperial  thermae  of  Rome.  But 
a  notion  of  the  size  only.  Imagine  every  entertainment  for  mind 
and  body— enumerate  all  the  gymnastic  games  our  fathers  in- 
vented— repeat  all  the  books  Italy  and  Greece  have  produced — 
supi^ose  places  for  all  these  games,  admirers  for  all  these  works 
— add  to  this,  baths  of  the  vastest  size,  the  most  complicated  con- 
struction— intersperse  the  whole  with  gardens,  with  theaters, 
with  porticos,  with  schools — suppose,  in  one  word,  a  city  of  the 
gods,  composed  but  of  palaces  and  public  edifices,  and  you  may 
form  some  faint  ideas  of  the  glories  of  the  great  baths  of 
Rome." 

"  By  Hercules!"  said  Diomed,  opening  his  eyes;  "  why,  it  would 
take  a  man's  whole  life  to  bathe!" 

"  At  Rome,  it  often  does  so,"  rephed  Glaucus,  gravely.  "There 
are  many  who  live  only  at  the  baths.  They  repair  there  the  first 
hour  in  which  the  doors  are  opened,  and  remain  till  that  in  which 
the  doors  are  closed.  They  seem  as  if  they  knew  nothing  of  the 
rest  of  Rome,  as  if  they  despised  all  other  existence." 

"  By  Pollux!  you  amaze  me." 

"  Even  those  who  bathe  only  thrice  a  day  contrive  to  consume 
their  lives  in  this  occupation.  They  take  their  exercise  in  the 
tennis-court  or  the  porticos  to  prepare  them  for  the  first  bath, 
they  lounge  into  the  theaters,  to  refresh  themselves  after  it. 
They  take  their  prandium  under  the  trees,  and  think  over  their 
second  bath.  By  the  time  it  is  prepared,  the  prandium  is  digested. 
From  the  second  bath  they  stroll  into  one  of  the  peristyles,  to  hear 
some  new  poet  recite;  or  into  the  hbrary  to  sleep  over  an  old  one. 
Then  comes  the  supper,  which  they  still  consider  but  a  part  of 


50  TBE  LA^T  DA  TS  OF  POMPEIt 

the  bath;  and  then  a  third  time  they  bathe  again,  as  the  bei* 
place  to  converse  with  tlieir  friends." 

"Per  Uercle!  but  we  have  their  imitators  at  Pompeii." 

"Yes,  and  without  their  excuse.  The  magnificent|voluptuarie8 
of  the  Roman  baths  are  happy;  they  see  nothing  but  gorgoousnesa 
and  splendor;  tliey  visit  not  the  squalid  parts  of  the  city;  they 
know  not  that  there  is  poverty  in  the  world.  All  Nature  smiles 
for  them,  and  her  only  frown  is  the  last  one  which  sends  them  to 
bathe  in  Cocytus.  Believe  me,  they  are  your  only  tnie  philoso- 
phers." 

While  Glaucus  was  thus  conversing,  Lepidus,  with  closed  eyes 
and  scarce  perceptible  breath,  was  undergoing  all  the  mystic  oper- 
ations, not  one  of  which  he  ever  suffered  his  attendants  to  omit. 
After  the  perfumes  and  the  unguents,  they  scattered  over  him 
the  luxurious  powxler  which  prevented  any  farther  accession  of 
heat;  and  this  being  rubbed  away  by  the  smooth  surface  of  the 
pumice,  he  began  to  indue,  not  the  garments  he  had  put  off,  but 
those  more  festive  ones  termed  "the  synthesis,"  with  which  the 
Romans  marked  their  respect  for  the  coming  ceremony  of  supper, 
if  rather,  from  its  hour  (three  o'clock  in  our  measurement  of  time), 
it  might  not  be  more  fitly  denominated  dinner.  This  done,  he  at 
length  opened  his  ej^es  and  gave  signs  of  returning  life. 

At  the  same  time,  too,  Sallust  betokened  by  a  long  yawn  the 
ervidence  of  existence. 

*'  It  is  supper-time,"  said  the  epicui-e;  "  you,  Glaucus  and  Lepi- 
dus, come  and  suf)  with  me." 

"  Recollect  you  are  all  three  engaged  to  my  house  next  week," 
cried  Diomed,  who  was  mightily  proud  of  the  acquaintance  of 
men  of  fashion. 

"Ah,  ah!  we  recollect,"  said  Sallust;  "the  seat  of  memory, 
my  Diomed,  is  certainly  in  the  stomach." 

Passing  now  once  again  into  the  cooler  air,  and  so  into  the 
street,  our  gallants  of  that  day  concluded  the  ceremony  of  a 
Pompeian  bath 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

ARBACES  COGS   HIS  DICE   WITH  PLEASURE,   AND  WINS  THE  GAME. 

The  evening  darkened  over  the  restless  city,  as  Apaecides  took 
his  way  to  the  house  of  the  Egyptian.  He  avoided  the  more 
lighted  and  pojmlous  streets;  and  as  he  strode  onward  with  hia 
head  buried  in  his  bosom,  and  his  arras  folded  witliin  his  rol>e, 
there  was  something  startling  in  the  contrast,  which  liis  solemn 
mien  and  wasted  form  presented  to  the  tliouglitless  bn^wa  and 
animated  air  of  those  who  occasionally  crossed  his  path. 

At  length,  lunvever,  a  man  of  a  more  soher  and  staid  demean- 
or, and  who  had  twice  passed  him  with  a  curious  but  doubting 
look,  touched  liim  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Apa-cides."  said  he,  as  he  made  a  rapid  sign  with  his  hands; 
It  was  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

"  Well,  Nazarene."  replied  the  priest,  and  his  face  grew  paler, 
**  what  wouldst  thou?" 

*'Nay,'    returned  the  stranger,  "I  would  not  interrupt  thy 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  51 

meditations;  but  the  last  time  we  met  I  seemed  not  to  be  so  un- 
welcome." 

"You  are  not  unwelcome,  Olinthus;  but  I  am  sad  and  weary, 
nor  am  I  able  this  evening  to  disca^s  with  von  those  themes 
which  are  most  acceptable  to  you." 

"O  backward  of  heart!"  said  Olinthus,  with  bitter  fervor; 
*'  and  art  thou  sad  and  weary,  and  wilt  thou  turn  from  the  very 
springs  that  refresh  ^nd  heal?'' 

"  O  eai-th!"  cried  the  young  priest,  striking  his  breast  passion- 
ately, "  from  what  regions  shall  my  eyes  open  to  the  true  Olym- 
pus, where  tliy  gods  really  dwell?  Am  I  to  believe  with  this 
man,  that  none  whom  for  so  many  centuries  my  fathers  wor- 
shiped have  a  being  or  a  name?  Am  I  to  break  doVn,  as  some- 
thing blasphemous  and  profane,  the  very  altars  which  I  have 
deemed  most  sacred?  or  am  I  to  think  with  Ai-baces— what?" 

He  paused,  and  strode  rapidly  away  in  the  impatience  of  a 
man  who  strives  to  get  rid  of  himself.  But  the  Nazarene  was 
one  of  those  hardy,  vigorous,  and  enthusiastic  men,  by  whom 
God  in  all  times  has  worked  the  revolutions  of  earth,  and  those, 
above  all,  in  the  establishment  and  in  the  reformation  of  His 
own  religion;  men  who  were  formed  to  convert,  because  formed 
to  endure.  It  is  men  of  this  mold  whom  nothing  discourages, 
nothing  dismays;  in  the  fervor  of  belief  they  are  inspired  and 
they  ins]Dire.  Their  reason  first  kindles  their  passion,  but  the 
passion  is  the  instrument  they  use;  they  force  themselves  into 
men's  hearts,  while  they  appear  only  to  appeal  to  their  judg- 
ment. Nothing  is  so  contagious  as  enthusiasm;  it  is  the  real 
allegory  of  the  tale  of  Orpheus— it  moves  stones,  it  charms 
brutes.  Enthusiasm  is  the  genius  of  sincerity,  and  truth  accom- 
plishes no  victories  without  it. 

Olinthus  did  not  then  suffer  Apaecides  thus  easily  to  escape 
him.     He  overtook,  and  addressed  him  thus: 

"  I  do  not  wonder,  Apsecides,  that  I  distress  you;  that  I  shake 
all  the  elements  of  your  mind:  that  you  are  lost  in  doubt;  that 
you  drift  here  and  there  in  the  vast  ocean  of  uncertain  and  be- 
nighted thought.  I  wonder  not  at  this,  but  bear  with  me  a  little; 
watch  and  pray— the  darkness  shall  vanish,  the  storm  sleep,  and 
God  himself,  as  He  came  of  yore  on  the  seas  of  Samaria,  shall 
walk  over  the  lulled  billows,  to  the  delivery  of  your  soul.  Ours 
is  a  reUgion  jealous  in  its  demands,  but  how  infinitely  prodigal 
in  its  gifts!  It  troubles  you  for  an  hour,  it  repays  you  by  im- 
mortahty." 

*'Such  promises,"  said  Apaacides,  sullenly,  "are  the  tricks  by 
which  man  is  ever  gulled.  Oh,  glorious  were  the  promises  which 
led  me  to  the  shrine  of  Isis  I" 

"But,"  answered  the  Nazarene,  "ask  thy  reason,  can  that 
religion  be  sound  which  outrages  all  morality  ?  You  are  told  to 
worship  your  gods.  What  are  those  gods,  even  according  to 
yourselves?  What  their  actions,  what  their  attributes?  Are 
they  not  all  represented  to  you  as  the  blacker^t  of  criminals  ?  yet 
you  are  asked  to  serve  them  as  the  holiest  of  divinities.  Jupiter 
himself  is  a  parricide  and  an  adulterer.  What  are  the  meaner 
deities  but  imitators  of  his  vices  ?    You  are  told  not  to  murder. 


52  THE  LAST  DAY8  OF  POMPEIL 

but  you  woreliip  murderers;  you  are  told  not  to  commit  adul- 
tery, and  you  make  your  prayers  to  an  adulterer.  Oh!  what  is 
this  l)ut  a  mockery  of  the  holiest  jmrt  of  man  s  nature,  which  is 
faith?  Turn  now'^to  the  God,  the  one,  the  true  God,  to  whose 
shiine  I  would  lead  you.  If  He  seem  to  you  too  sublime,  too  shekd- 
owy  for  those  human  associations,  those  touching  connections 
between  Creator  and  creature,  to  wliich  the  weak  heart  clings — 
contemplate  Him  in  His  Son,  wlio  put  on  mortality  like  our- 
selves. His  mortality  is  not  indeed  declared,  like  that  of  your 
fabled  gods,  by  the  vices  of  our  nature,  but  by  the  practice  of 
all  its  virtues.  In  Him  are  united  the  austcrest  morals  with  the 
tenderest  affections.  If  He  were  but  a  mere  man,  He  had  been 
worthy  to  become  a  god.  You  honor  Socrates — he  has  his  sect, 
his  disciples,  his  schools.  But  what  are  the  doubtful  virtues  of 
the  Athenian,  to  the  bright,  the  undisputed,  the  active,  the  un- 
ceasing, the  devoted  holiness  of  Christ  ?  I  speak  to  you  now  only 
of  His  human  character.  He  came  in  that  as  the  pattern  of 
future  ages,  to  show  us  the  form  of  virtue  which  Plato  thirsted 
to  see  embodied.  This  was  the  true  sacrifice  that  He  made  for 
man;  but  the  halo  that  encircled  His  dying  hour  not  only  bright- 
ened earth,  but  opened  to  us  the  sight  of  heaven!  You  are 
touched — you  are  moved.  God  works  in  your  heart.  His  Spirit 
is  with  you.  Come,  resist  not  the  holy  impulse;  come  at  once — 
unhesitatingly.  A  few  of  us  are  now  assembled  to  expound  the 
word  of  God:  Come,  let  me  guide  you  to  them.  You  are  sad, 
you  are  weary.  Listen,  then,  to  the  words  of  God:  '  Come  to 
me,'  saith  He,  'all  ye  that  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  \vill  give  you 
test  I' " 

**  I  cannot  now,"  said  Apaecides;  "another  time." 

"Now — now!"  exclaimed  Olinthus,  earnestly,  and  cltisping 
bim  by  the  arm. 

But  Apascides,  yet  unprepared  for  the  renunciation  of  that 
faith— that  life,  for  which  he  had  sacrificed  so  much,  and  still 
haunted  by  the  promises  of  the  Egyptian,  extricated  himself 
forcibly  from  the  grasp,  and  feeling  an  effort  necessary  to  con- 
quer the  irresolution  which  the  eloquence  of  the  Christian  had 
begun  to  effect  in  his  heated  and  feverish  mind,  he  gathered  up 
his  robes,  and  fled  away  with  a  speed  that  defied  pursuit. 

Breathless  and  exhausted,  he  arrived,  at  last,  in  a  remote  and 
sequestered  part  of  the  city,  and  the  lone  house  of  the  Egy])tian 
stood  before  him.  As  he  paused  to  recover  himself,  the  moon 
emerge'l  from  a  silver  cloud,  and  shone  full  upon  the  walls  of 
that  mysterious  habitation. 

No  other  house  was  near— the  darksome  vines  clustered  far  and 
wide  in  front  of  the  building,  and  behind  it  rose  a  copse  of  lofty 
forest  trees,  slee])ing  in  the  jnelancholy  moonlight ;  l^yond, 
stretched  the  dim  outline  of  the  distnnt  hills,  and,  among  them, 
the  quiet  crest  of  Vesuvius,  not  then  so  lofty  as  the  tmveler 
beholds  it  now. 

ApiTfcides  jmssed  through  the  arching  vines,  and  arrived  at 
the  broa<l  and  spac.-ious  portico.  I5ef<>re  it,  on  either  side  of  the 
steps,  rei)0sed  the  image  of  an  Egyptian  sphinx,  aiid  the  moon- 
light gave  an  additional,  and  yet  more  solemn  calm,  to  thoA« 


THJ^  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPJEtT.  m 

large,  and  harmonious,  and  passionless  features,  in  whicii  the 
sculptors  of  that  type  of  wisdom  united  so  much  of  loveliness 
with  awe;  half  way  up  the  extremities  of  the  steps,  darkened  the 
green  and  massy  foliage  of  the  aloe,  and  the  shadow  of  the 
eastern  palm  cast  its  long  and  unwaving  boughs  partially  over 
the  marble  surface  of  the  stairs. 

Sonaething  there  was  in  the  stillness  of  the  place,  and  the 
strange  aspect  of  the  sculptured  sphinxes,  which  thrilled  the 
blood  of  the  priest  with  a  nameless  and  ghostly  fear,  and  he 
longed  even  for  an  echo  to  his  noiseless  stejDs,  as  he  ascended  to 
the  threshold. 

He  knocked  at  the  door,  over  which  was  wrought  an  inscrip- 
tion in  characters  unfamiliar  to  his  eyes;  it  opened  without  a 
sound,  and  a  tall,  Ethiopian  slave,  without  question  or  salutation, 
motioned  to  him  to  proceed. 

The  wide  hall  was  lighted  by  lofty  candelabra  of  elaborate 
bronze,  and  round  the  walls  were  wrought  vast  liieroglyphics,  in 
dark  and  solemn  colors,  which  contrasted  strangely  v/ith  the 
bright  hues  and  graceful  shapes,  with  which  the  inhabitants  of 
Italy  decorated  their  abodes.  At  the  extremity  of  the  hall,  a 
slave,  whose  countenance,  though  not  African,  was  darker  hj 
many  shades  than  the  usual  color  of  the  south,  advanced  to 
meet  him. 

"  I  seek  Arbaces,"  said  the  priest;  but  his  voice  trembled  in  his 
own  ear.  The  slave  bowed  his  head  in  silence,  and  leading  Apae- 
cides  to  a  wing  without  the  hall,  conducted  him  up  a  narrow 
staircase,  and  then,  traversing  several  rooms,  in  which  the  stern 
and  thoughtful  beauty  of  the  sphinx  still  made  the  chief  and 
most  impressive  object  of  the  priest's  notice,  Apgecides  found 
himself  in  a  dim,  and  half -lighted  chamber,  in  the  presence  of 
the  Egyptian. 

Arbaces  was  seated  before  a  small  table,  on  which  lay  unfolded 
several  scrolls  of  papyrus,  imjDressed  with  the  same  character  as 
that  on  the  threshold  of  the  mansion. 

A  small  tripod  stood  at  a  little  distance,  from  the  incense  in 
which  the  smoke  slowly  rose.  Near  this  was  a  vast  globe,  de- 
picting the  signs  of  heaven;  and  upon  another  table  lay  several 
instruments,  of  cm'ious  and  quaint  shape,  whose  uses  were  un- 
known to  Apascides.  The  farther  extremity  of  the  room  was  con- 
cealed by  a  curtain,  and  the  oblong  window  in  the  roof  admitted 
the  rays  of  the  moon,  mingling  sadly  with  the  single  lamp  which 
burned  in  the  apartment. 

*'  Seat  yourself,  Apsecides,"  said  the  Egyptian,  without  rising. 

The  young  man  obeyed. 

"You  ask  me,"  resumed  Arbaces,  after  a  short  pause,  in  which 
he  seemed  absorbed  in  thought — "  You  ask  me,  or  would  do  so, 
the  mightiest  secrets  which  the  soul  of  man  is  fitted  to  receive; 
it  is  the  enigTua  of  life  itself  that  you  desire  me  to  solve.  Placed 
like  children  in  the  dark,  and  but  for  a  little  while,  in  this  dim 
and  confined  existence,  we  shape  our  specters  in  the  obscurity; 
our  thoughts  now  sink  back  into  ourselves  in  terror,  now  wildly 
plunge  themselves  into  the  guideless  gloom,  guessing  what  it 
may  contain — stretching  our  helpless  hands  here  and  there,  lest, 


64  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII 

blindly,  we  Btumble  upon  some  hidden  danger;  not  knowing  the 
limits  of  our  boundary,  now  feeling  them  sufToeate  us  with  com- 
pression, now  seeing  them  extend  far  away  till  tliey  vanisli  into 
eternity.  In  this  state,  all  wisdom  consists  necessarily  in  the 
solution  of  two  questions — *  What  are  we  to  believe?  and  wliat  are 
■we  to  reject?'    These  questions  you  desii'o  me  to  decide?" 

Apaecides  bowed  his  heaii  in  assent. 

"  Man  )iiust  have  some  belief,"  continued  the  Egyptian,  in  a 
tone  of  sadness.  "  He  must  fasten  his  hope  to  soinething;  it  is 
our  common  nature  that  you  inherit  when,  aghast  and  terrified 
to  see  that  in  which  you  have  been  tauglit  to  place  your  faith 
swept  away,  you  float  over  a  dreary  and  shoreless  sea  of  incerti- 
tude, you  cry  for  help,  you  ask  for  some  plank  to  cling  to,  some 
land,  however  dim  and  distant,  to  attain.  Well,  then,  listen. 
You  have  not  forgotten  our  conversation  of  to-day?'' 

"Forgotten!" 

**I  confessed  to  you  that  those  deities  for  whom  smoke  so 
many  altars  were  but  inventions.  I  confessed  to  you  that  our 
rites  and  ceremonies  were  but  mummeries  to  delude  and  lure  the 
herd  to  their  proper  good.  I  explained  to  you  that  from  those 
delusions  came  the  bonds  of  society,  the  harmony  of  tlie  world, 
the  power  of  the  wdse;  that  power  is  in  the  obedience  of  the  xvd- 
gar.  Continue  we  then  these  salutary  delusions — if  man  must 
have  some  belief,  continue  to  him  that  which  his  fathers  have 
made  dear  to  hmi,  and  which  custom  sanctifies  and  strengthens. 
In  seeking  a  subtler  faith  for  us,  whose  senses  are  too  spiritual 
for  the  gross  one,  let  us  leave  otliers  that  support  which  crumbles 
from  ourselves.     This  is  wise— it  is  benevolent." 

"Proceed." 

'•  This  being  settled,"  resumed  the  Egyptian,  "the  old  land- 
marks being  left  uninjured  for  those  whom  we  are  about  to  desert, 
we  gird  up  our  loins  and  depart  to  new  climes  of  faith.  Dismiss 
at  once  from  your  recollection,  from  your  thought,  all  that  you 
have  believed  before.  Suppose  the  mind  a  blank,  and  an  un- 
written scroll,  fit  to  receive  impressions  for  the  first  time.  Look 
round  the  world — observe  its  order — its  regularity — its  design. 
Something  must  have  created  it — the  design  speaks  a  designer; 
in  that  certainty  we  first  touch  land.  But  what  is  that  some- 
thing?— A  god,  you  cry.  Stay — no  confused  and  confusing 
names.  Of  that  which  created  the  world,  we  know,  we  can 
know,  nothing,  save  these  attributes — power  and  unvarying  reg- 
ularity— stern,  crushing,  relentless  regularity — heeding  no  indi- 
vidual cases — rolling — sweeping — burning  on; — no  matter  what 
scattered  hearts,  severed  from  the  general  mass,  fall  ground  and 
scorclied  beneath  its  wheels.  The  mixture  of  evil  with  good — 
the  existence  of  suffering  and  of  crime — in  all  times  have  perplex- 
ed the  wise.  They  created  a  god — they  su])posed  him  benevol- 
ent. How  then  came  tliis  evil?  why  did  he  permit— nay,  why 
invent,  why  perpetuate  it?  To  account  for  tliis,  the  Persian 
creates  a  second  spirit,  whose  nature  is  evil,  and  supposes  a  con- 
tinual war  l>etween  that  and  the  god  of  good.  In  our  own  shad- 
owy and  tremendous  Typhon,  the  Egyptians  linage  a  similar 
demon.    Perplexing  blunder  that  yet  more  bewilders  us — folly 


TEE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII,  55 

that  arose  from  the  vain  delusion  that  makes  a  palpable,  a  cor- 
poreal, a  human  being,  of  this  unknown  power — that  clothes  the 
Invisible  with  attributes  and  a  nature  similar  to  tlic  Seen,  No:, 
to  this  designer  let  us  give  a  name  that  does  not  command  our 
bewildering  associations,  and  the  mystery  becomes  more  clear — 
the  name  is  Necessity.  Necessity,  say  the  Greeks,  comiDels  the 
gods.  Then  why  the  gods? — their  agency  becomes  unnecessary 
— dismiss  them  at  once.  Necessity  is  tlie  ruler  of  all  we  see — 
power,  regularity — these  two  qualities  make  its  nature.  Would 
you  ask  more? — you  can  learn  nothing:  whether  it  be  eternal — 
whether  it  compel  us,  its  creatures,  to  new  careers  after  that 
darkness  which  we  call  death — we  cannot  tell.  There  leave  we 
this  ancient,  unseen,  unfathomable  power,  and  come  to  that 
which,  to  our  eyes,  is  the  great  minister  of  its  functions.  This 
we  can  task  no  more,  from  this  we  can  learn  no  more,  its  evi- 
dence is  around  us— its  name  is  Nature.  The  eiTor  of  the  sages 
has  been  to  direct  their  researches  to  the  attributes  of  necessity, 
where  all  is  gloom  aud  blindness.  Had  they  confined  their  re- 
searches to  Nature  —what  of  knowledge  might  we  not  already 
have  achieved?  Here  patience,  examination,  are  never  du-ected 
in  vain.  We  see  what  we  explore;  our  minds  ascend  a  palpable 
ladder  of  eauses  and  effects.  Nature  is  the  great  _  agent  of  the 
external  universe,  and  necessity  imj)oses  upon  it  the  laws  by 
which  it  acts,  and  imparts  to  us  tb.e  powers  by  which  we  ex- 
amine; those  powers  are  curiosity  and  memory — their  union  is 
reason,  their  perfection  is  wisdom.  Well,  then,  I  examine  by  the 
help  of  those  powers  this  inexhaustible  Nature.  I  examine  the 
earth, the  air,  the  ocean,  the  heaven:  I  find  that  all  have  a  mystic 
sympathy  with  eacli  other — that  the  moon  sways  the  tides — that 
the  air  maintains  the  earth,  and  is  the  medium  of  the  life  and 
sense  of  things — that  by  the  knowledge  of  the  stars  we  measure  the 
limits  of  the  earth — that  we  portion  out  the  epochs  of  time — 
that  by  their  pale  light  we  are  guided  into  the  abyss  of  the  past— 
that  in  their  solemn  lore  we  discern  the  destinies  of  the  future.  And 
thus,  while  we  know  not  that  whJch  necessity  is,  we  learn,  at  least, 
her  decrees.  And  now,  what  morally  do  we  glean  from  this  re- 
ligion? for  rehgion  it  is.  I  beheve  in  two  deities.  Nature  and 
Necessity;  I  worship  the  last  by  reverence,  the  first  by  investi- 
gation. What  is  the  morality  my  religion  teaches?  This:  all 
things  are  subject  but  to  general  rules;  the  sun  shines  for  the  joy 
of  the  many;  it  may  bring  sorrow  to  the  few;  the  night  sheds 
Bleep  on  the  multitude,  but  it  harbors  murder  as  well  as  rest;  the 
forests  adorn  the  earth,  but  shelter  the  serpent  and  the  lion;  the 
ocean  sui)ports  a  thousand  barks,  but  it  engulfs  the  one.  It  is 
only  thus  for  the  general,  and  not  for  the  universal  benefit,  that 
Nature  acts,  and  necessity  speeds  on  her  awful  course.  This  is 
the  morality  of  the  dread  agents  of  the  world— it  is  mine,  who 
am  their  creature.  I  woii»ld  impart  to  man  the  arts  I  discover, 
sciences  I  perfect;  I  would  speed  the  vast  career  of  civilizing  lore 
— in  this  I  serve  the  mass,  I  fulfil  the  general  law,  I  execute  the 
great  moral  that  Nature  preaches.  For  myself  I  claim  the  iiidi 
vidual  exception;  I  claim  it  for  the  wise,  satisfied  that  my  indi- 
vidual actions  are  nothing  in  the  great  balance  of  good  *nd  Qvii,* 


56  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIL 

satisfied  that  the  product  of  my  knowledge  can  give  greatef 
blessings  to  tlie  mass  tiian  my  desires  can  operate  e^^l  on  the 
few  (for  the  first  can  extend  to  remotest  regions  and  humanize 
nations  yet  unborn),  I  give  to  the  world  wisdom,  to  myself  free- 
dom. I  enlighten  the  lives  of  others,  and  I  enjoy  my  own. 
Yes;  our  wisdom  is  eternal,  but  our  life  is  short;  make  the  most 
of  it  while  it  lasts.  Surrender  thy  youth  to  pleasure,  and  thy 
senses  to  dehght.  Soon  comes  the  hour  when  the  wine-cup  is 
shattered,  and  the  garlands  shall  cease  to  bloom.  Enjoy  wliile 
you  may.  Be  still,  O  Aprecides,  ray  pupil  and  my  follower!  I 
will  teach  thee  the  mechanism  of  Nature,  her  darkest  and  her 
wildest  secrets — the  lor©  wliicli  fools  call  magic — and  the  mighty 
mysteries  of  the  stars.  By  this  shalt  thou  enlighten  thy  race. 
But  I  will  lend  thee  also  to  pleasures  of  which  the  vidgar  do  not 
dream;  and  the  day  which  thou  gi vest  to  men  shall  be  followed 
by  the  sweet  night  which  thou  surrenderest  to  thyself.'' 

As  the  Egyptian  ceased  there  rose  about,  around,  beneath,  the 
softest  music  that  Lydia  ever  taught,  or  Ionia  ever  perfected.  It 
came  like  a  stream  of  sound,  bathing  the  senses  unawares;  ener- 
vating, subduing  with  delight.  It  seemed  the  melodies  of  invisi- 
ble spirits,  such  as  the  shepiierd  might  have  heard  in  the  golden 
age,  floating  through  the  vales  of  Thessal}',  or  in  the  noontide 
glades  of  Paphos. 

The  words  which  had  rushed  to  the  lip  of  Aposcides,  in  answer 
to  the  sophistries  of  the  Egyptian,  died  trembling  away.  He 
felt  it  as  a  profanation  to  break  upon  that  enchanted  strain — the 
susceptibility  of  his  excited  nature,  tlie  Greek  softness  and  ardor 
of  his  secret  soul,  were  swayed  and  captured  by  surprise.  He 
sank  on  the  seat  with  parted  lips  and  thirsting  ear;  wliile  in  a 
chorus  of  voices,  bland  and  melting  as  those  which  waked  Psyche 
in  the  halls  of  love,  rose  the  following  song  : 

THE  HYMN   OF  EROS. 

By  the  cool  banks  where  soft  Cephsius  flows, 
A  voice  sail'd  trembling  down  the  waves  of  air; 

The  loaves  blushed  brighter  in  the  Teian's  rose, 
The  doves  couch'd  breathless  in  their  summer  lair: 

While  from  their  hand  the  purple  flowerets  fell, 
The  lauijhing  Hours  stood  listening  in  the  sky; 

From  Pan's  green  cave  to  Ogle's  haunted  cell. 
Headed  the  charm'd  earth  in  one  delicious  sigh. 

Love,  sons  of  earth  !    I  am  the  power  of  Love ! 

P^ldest  of  all  the  erods,  with  Cliaos  born; 
My  smile  sheds  light  alone  the  courts  above, 

My  kisses  wake  the  eyelids  of  the  morn. 

Mine  ,ve  the  stars — there,  ever  as  ye  gaze, 

Ye  meet  the  deep  spell  of  my  haunting  eyes; 
Mine  is  the  moon— and,  mournful  if  her  rays, 

'Tis  that  she  lingers  where  her  Carian  lies. 

The  flowers  are  mine— tlie  blushes  of  the  rose, 

The  violet-charmincr  Zcpliyr  t<>  the  shade; 
Mine  the  (juirk  liu'lit  fliat  in  tlie  Maybeam  glows, 

,^nd  njine  the  day-dream  in  the  lonely  glade, 


THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEIZ  OT 

Love,  sons  of  earth — for  love  is  earth's  soft  lore, 
Look  where  ye  will — earth  overflows  with  ME. 

Learn  from  the  waves  that  ever  kiss  the  shore, 
And  the  winds  nestling  on  the  heaving  sea. 

All  teaches  love  !  The  sweet  voice,  like  a  dream, 

Melted  in  light;  yet  still  the  airs  t*bove, 
The  waving  sedges,  and  the  whispering  stream, 

And  the  green  forest  rustling,  murmur'd  LOVE  I 

As  the  voices  died  away,  the  Egyptian  seized  the  hand  of 
Apsecides,  and  led  him  wondering,  intoxicated  yet  half -reluctazit, 
across  the  chamber  toward  the  curtain  at  the  far  end;  and  now, 
from  behind  that  curtain,  there  seemed  to  burst  a  thousand 
sparkling  stars;  the  veil  itself,  liitherto  dark,  was  now  lighted  by 
these  fires  beliind  into  the  tenderest  blue  of  heaven.  It  repre- 
sented heaven  itself — such  a  heaven,  as  in  the  nights  of  June 
might  have  shone  down  over  the  streams  of  Castaly.  Here 
and  there  were  painted  rosy  and  aerial  clouds,  from  which 
smiled,  by  the  limner's  art,  faces  of  divinest  beauty,  and  on  which 
reposed  the  shapes  of  wliich  Phidias  and  Apelles  dreamed.  And 
the  stars  Avhich  studded  the  transparent  azure  rolled  rapidly  as 
they  shone,  wliile  the  music,  that  again  woke  with  a  livelier  and 
lighter  sound,  seemed  to  imitate  the  melody  of  the  joyous 
spheres. 

''O!  what  miracle  is  this,  Arbaces?"  said  Apaecides  in  falter- 
ing accents.  "After  having  denied  the  gods,  art  thou  about  to 
reveal  to  me " 

"  Their  pleasures  !"  interrupted  Arbaces,  in  a  tone  so  different 
from  its  usual  cold  and  tranquil  harmony  that  Apaecides  started, 
and  thought  the  Egyptian  himself  transformed;  and  now,  as 
they  neared  the  cui-tain,  a  wild — a  loud — an  exulting  melody 
burst  from  behind  its  concealment.  With  that  sound  the  veil 
was  rent  in  twain — it  parted — it  seemed  to  vanish  into  air;  and  a 
scene,  which  no  Sybarite  ever  more  than  rivaled,  broke  upon  the 
dazzled  gaze  of  the  youthful  priest.  A  vast  banquet  room 
stretched  beyond,  blazing  with  countless  Ughts,  which  filled  the 
warm  air  with  the  scents  of  frankincense,  of  jasmine,  of  violets, 
of  myjffh;  all  that  the  most  odorous  flowers,  all  that  the  most 
costly  spices  could  distil,  seemed  gathered  in  one  ineffable  and 
ambrosial  essence:  from  the  light  columns  that  sprang  upward 
to  the  airy  roof  hung  di-aperies  of  white,  studded  with  golden 
stars.  At  the  extremities  of  the  room  two  fountains  cast  up  a 
spray,  which,  catching  the  rays  of  the  roseate  light,  ghttered 
like  countless  diamonds.  In  the  center  of  the  room  as  they  en- 
tered there  rose  slowly  from  the  floor,  to  the  sound  of  unseen 
tninstrelsy,  a  table  spread  with  all  the  viands  which  sense  ever 
devoted  to  fancy,  and  vases  of  that  lost  Myrrhine  fabric,  so  glow- 
ing in  its  colors,  so  transparent  in  its  material,  were  crowned 
with  the  exotics  of  the  East.  The  couches,  to  which  this  table 
was  the  center,  were  covered  with  tapestries  of  azure  and  gold; 
and  from  invisible  tubes  in  the  vaulted  roof  descended  showers 
of  fragrant  waters,  that  cooled  the  delicious  air,  and  contended 
with  the  lamps,  as  if  the  sph-its  of  wave  and  fire  disputed  whicl^ 
elencient  could  furnish  forth  the  most  delicious  colors.  And  uoWi 


58   :  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

from  behind  the  snowy  draperies,  trooped  such  forms  as  Adonis 
beheld  when  he  lay  on  the  lap  of  Venus.  Thej'  came,  some  with 
garlands,  others  with  lyres;  tliey  surrounded  the  youth,  they  led 
his  steps  to  the  banquet.  Tliey  flunj]j  the  chaplets  round  him  in 
rosy  chains.  Tlie  earth — the  thought  of  earth  vanished  from  his 
soul.  He  imagined  himself  in  a  dream,  and  suY)pressed  his 
breath  lest  he  should  wake  too  soon;  the  senses,  to  wliich  he  had 
never  yielded  as  yet,  beat  in  his  burning  pulse,  and  confused  his 
dizzy  and  reeling  sight.  And  while  thus  amazed  and  lost,  onco 
again,  but  in  brisk  and  Bacchic  measures,  rose  the  magic  strain; 

ANACRENOTIC. 

In  the  veins  of  the  calix  foams  and  glows 

The  blood  of  the  niantHng  vine, 
But  oh!  in  the  bowl  of  Youth  there  glows 
A  Lesbiura  more  divine! 
Bright,  bright, 
As  the  liquid  light, 
Its  waves  through  thine  eyelids  shinel 
Fill  up,  fill  up,  to  the  sparkling  brim, 

The  juice  of  the  young  Lvffus; 
The  grape  is  the  key  that  we  owe  to  him 
From  the  goal  of 'the  world  to  free  us! 
Drink,  drink! 
What  need  to  shrink. 
When  the  lamps  alone  can  see  us? 

Drink,  drink,  as  I  quaff  from  thine  ej'es. 

The  wine  of  a  softer  tree: 
Give  the  smiles  to  the  god  of  the  grape— thy  sighg, 
Beloved  one,  give  to  me. 

Turn,  turn, 
My  glances  burn, 
And  thirst  for  a  look  from  thee! 

As  the  song  ended,  a  gi'oup  of  three  maidens,  entwined  with 
a  chain  of  starred  flowers,  and  who,  while  they  imitated,  might 
have  shamed  the  Graces,  advanced  toward  him  in  the  gliding 
measures  of  the  Ionian  dance;  such  as  the  Nereids  wreathed  in 
moonlight  on  the  yellow  sands  of  the  ^gean  wave — such  as  Cy- 
therea  taught  her  hand-maids  in  the  maniage  feast  of  Pysche  and 
her  son. 

Now  approaching,  they  wreathed  their  chaplet  round  his 
head;  now  kneeling  the  youngest  of  the  three  proffered  him  the 
bowl,  from  which  the  wine  of  Lesbos  foamed  and  sparkled.  The 
youth  resisted  no  more,  lie  grasped  the  intoxicating  cup,  the 
blood  mantled  fiercely  through  liis  veins.  He  sank  upon  the 
breast  of  the  nymph  who  sat  beside  him,  and  turning  with  swim- 
ming eyes  to  seek  for  Arbac(.'s,  whom  lie  had  hist  in  the  whirl  of 
his  emotions,  he  beheld  him  seated  lienenth  a  canopy  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  table,  and  gating  upon  him  with  a  smile  that  encour- 
aged him  to  pleasur*'.  He  beheld  liiin.  but  not  as  lie  had  liitherto 
seen,  with  dark  and  sable  garmiMits,  witli  a  brooding  and  solemn 
brow;  a  robe  that  dazzled  the  siglit.  so  stinUhd  was  its  wJiitest 
surface  with  gold  and  gems,  hlazed  upon  his  majestic  form; 
white  roses,  alternated  with  tlie  emerald  and  the  ruby,  and 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  59 

shaped  tiara-like,  crowned  his  raven  locks.  He  appeared,  like 
Ulysses,  to  have  gained  the  glory  of  a  second  youth — his  features 
seemed  to  have  exchanged  thought  for  beauty,  and  he  towered 
amid  the  loveliness  that  suiTOunded  him,  in  all  the  beaming  and 
relaxing  benignity  of  the  Olympian  god. 

"Drink,  feast,  love,  my  pupil!"  said  he:  "  blush  not  that  thou 
art  passionate  and  young.  That  which  thou  art,  thou  feelest  in 
thy  veins:  that  which  thou  shalt  be,  survey!" 

With  this  he  pointed  to  a  recess,  and  the  eyes  of  Apaecides,  fol- 
lowing the  gesture,  beheld  on  a  pedestal  placed  between  the 
statues  of  Bacchus  and  Idalia,  the  form  of  a  skeleton. 

"  Start  not,"  resumed  the  Egyptian;  "  that  friendly  guest  ad- 
monishes us  both  of  the  shortness  of  life.  Fi'om  its  jaws  I  hear 
a  voice  that  summons  us  to  enjoy." 

As  he  spoke  a  group  of  nymphs  surrounded  the  statue  ;  they 
laid  chaplets  on  its  pedestal,  and,  while  the  cups  were  emptied 
and  refilled  at  that  glowing  board,  they  sang  in  the  following 
strain  : 

BACCHIC  HYMNS  TO  THE  IMAGE  OF  DEATH 


Thou  art  In  the  land  of  the  shadowy  Host, 

Thou  that  didst  drink  and  love  ; 
By  the  Solemn  River,  a  gliding  ghost, 

But  thy  thought  is  ours  above! 

If  memory  yet  can  fly, 
Back  to  the  golden  sky, 
And  mourn  the  pleasures  lost! 
By  the  ruined  hall  these  flowers  we  lay, 

Where  thy  soul  once  had  its  palace; 
When  the  rose  to  thy  scent  and  sight  was  gay, 
And  the  smile  was  in  the  chalice, 
And  the  cithara's  silver  voice 
Could  bid  the  heart  rejoice 
When  night  eclipse  the  day. 

Here  a  new  group  advancing,  turned  the  tide  of  the  music  into 
a  quicker  and  more  joyous  strain  : 


Death,  death,  is  the  gloomy  shore. 

Where  we  all  sail — 
Soft,  soft,  thou  gliding  oar; 

Blow  soft,  sweet  gale! 
Chain  with  bright  wreaths  the  Hours 

Victims  if  all, 
Ever,  'mid  song  and  flowers, 

Victims  should  fall! 

Pausing  for  a  moment,  yet  quicker  and  quicker  danced  the  sil- 
ver-footed music  : 

Since  Life's  so  short,  we'll  live  to  laugh, 

Ah!  wherefore  waste  a  minute! 
If  youth's  the  cup  we  yet  can  quaff. 

Be  love  the  pearl  within  itl 


«0  THE  LAST  DAVS  OF  POMPEII 

Athirdbandnow  approached  with  brimming  cups,  which  they 
poured  in  libation  upon  that  strange  altar;  and  once  more,  slow  and 
Bolemn  rose  the  changeful  melody : 


Thou  art  welcome,  Guest  of  gloom, 

From  the  far  and  fearful  seal 
When  the  last  rose  sheds  its  bloom, 

Our  board  shall  be  spread  with  thoe! 
All  hail,  dark  GuestI 

Who  hath  so  fair  a  plea 

Our  welcome  Guest  to  be. 

As  thou,  whose  solemn  hall 

At  last  shall  feast  us  all 

In  the  dim  and  dismal  coast? 

Long  yet  be  we  the  Host! 

And  thou.  Dead  Shadow,  thou, 

All  joyless  though  thy  brow, 

Thou— but  ('Ur  passing  Gnestf 

At  this  moment,  she  who  sat  beside  Apaecides   suddenly  took 
mp  the  song: 


Happy  is  yet  our  doom. 

The  earth  and  the  sun  are  oursl 
And  far  from  the  dreary  tomb 
Speed  the  wings  of  the  rosy  Hours — 
Sweet  is  for  thee  the  bowl, 
Sweet  are  thy  locks,  my  love; 
I  fly  to  thy  tender  soul. 
As  the  bird  to  its  mated  dove! 
Take  me,  ah,  take! 
Clasp'd  to  thy  guardian  breast, 
Soft  let  me  sink  to  rest; 

But  wake  me— ah,  wakel 
And  tell  me  with  words  and  sighs, 
But  more  with  thy  melting  eyes. 
That  my  sun  is  not  set- 
That  the  Torch  is  not  quench'd  at  the  Ura, 
That  we  love,  and  we  breathe,  and  bui'n, 
Tell  me  thou  lov'st  me  yet! 


BOOK  THE  SECOND, 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  FLASH  HOUSE  IN  POMPEH,   AND  THE  GENTLEMEN  OF  THE  CLAS- 
SIC   RINQ. 

To  one  of  those  parts  of  Pomjieii,  which  were  tenanted  not  by 
the  lords  of  pleasure,  but  by  its  victims;  the  haunt  of  gladiators 
and  prize-fighters;  of  the  vicious  and  the  penniless;  of  the  savage 
and  the  obscene;  the  Alsatia  of  an  ancient  city — we  are  now 
transported. 

It  was  a  large  room,  that  opened  at  once  on  tlie  confined  and 
crowded  lane.  Before  the  tlirtshold  was  a  group  of  men,  whose 
iron  and  well-strung  muscles,  whose  short  and  Herculean  necks, 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII  61 

whose  hardy  and  reckless  countenances,  indicated  the  cham- 
pions of  the  arena.  On  a  shelf,  without  the  shop,  were  ranged 
jars  of  wine  and  oil;  and  right  over  this  was  inserted  in  the  wall 
a  course  painting,  which  exhibited  gladiators  drinking — so  an- 
cient and  so  venerable  is  the  custom  of  signs  I  Within  the  room 
were  placed  several  small  tables,  arranged  somewhat  in  the  mod- 
ern fashion  of  "boxes,"  and  round  these  were  seated  several 
knots  of  men,  some  drinking,  some  playing  at  dice,  some  at  that 
more  skilful  game  called  "  duedecimce  script,"  which  some  of  the 
blundering  learned  have  mistaken  for  chess,  though  it  rather 
perhaps  resembled  backgammon  of  the  two,  and  was  usually, 
though  not  always,  played  by  the  assistance  of  dice.  The  hour 
was  in  the  early  forenoon,  and  nothing  better,  perhaps,  than  that 
unseasonable  time  itself  denoted  the  habitual  indolence  of  these 
tavern-loungers.  Yet,  despite  the  situation  of  the  house  and  the 
character  of  its  inmates,  it  indicated  none  of  that  sordid  squalor 
which  would  have  characterized  a  similar  haunt  in  a  modem 
city.  The  gay  disposition  of  all  the  Pompeians,  who  sought,  at 
least,  to  gratify  the  sense  even  where  they  neglected  the  mind, 
was  typified  by  the  gaudy  colors  which  decorated  the  walls,  and 
the  shapes,  fantastic,  but  not  inelegant,  in  which  the  lamps,  the 
drinking-cups,  the  commonest  household  utensils,  were  wrought. 

"By  Pollux  I"  said  one  of  the  gladiators,  as  he  leaned  against 
the  wall  of  the  threshold,  "  the  wine  thou  sellest  us,  oldSilenus" 
— and  as  he  spoke  he  slapped  a  portly  personage  on  the  back — "k 
enough  to  thin  the  best  blood  in  one's  veins." 

The  man  thus  caressingly  saluted,  and  whose  bared  arms,  whit«> 
apron,  and  keys  and  napkin  tucked  carelessly  VTlthin  his  girdle^ 
indicated  him  to  be  the  host  of  the  tavern,  was  already  passed 
into  the  autumn  of  his  years;  but  his  form  was  still  so  robust  and 
athletic,  that  he  might  have  shamed  even  the  sincTvy  shape  be- 
side him,  save  that  the  muscles  had  seeded,  as  it  were,  into  flesh, 
that  the  cheeks  were  swelled  and  bloated,  and  the  increasing 
stomach  threw  into  the  shade  the  massive  chest  which  rose  above 
it. 

"None  of  thy  scurrilous  blusterings  with  me,"  growled  the 
gigantic  landlord,  in  the  gentle  semi-roar  of  an  insulted  tiger; 
"  my  wine  is  good  enough  for  a  carcass  which  shall  so  soon  soak 
the  dust  of  the  spoUarium."* 

"Croakest  thou  thus,  old  raven?"  returned  the  gladiator, 
laughing  scornfully:  "  thou  shalt  live  to  hang  thyself  with 
despite  when  thou  seest  me  win  the  palm  crown;  and  when  I  get 
the  purse  at  the  amphitheather,  as  I  certainly  shall,  my  first  vow 
to  Hercules  shall  be  to  forswear  thee  and  thy  vile  potations  ever- 
more." 

"Hear  to  him — hear  to  this  modest  Pyrgopolinices!  He  haa 
certainly  served  under  Bombochides  Cluninstaridysarchides,"t 
cried  the  host.    "Sporus,  Niger,  Tetraides,  he  declares  he  shall 

*  The  place  in  which  the  klUed  or  mortally  wounded  were  dragged  from 
the  arena. 

t  "  Miles  Gloriosus,"  Act  I.;  as  much  as  to  say,  in  modem  phrase:  *'  H« 
kas  served  under  Bombastes  Furioso." 


e»  THE  LAST  DA  78  OF  POMPEH, 

win  the  purse  from  you.  Why,  by  the  Godsl  each  of  your  mug 
cles  is  strong  enough  to  stifle  all  his  body,  or  I  know  nothing  of 
the  arenal" 

"Hal"  said  the  gladiator,  coloring  with  rising  fury,  "our 
lanista  would  tell  a  different  story." 

"What  story  could  he  tell  against  me,  vain  Lydon?"  said 
Tetraides,  frowning. 

"Or  me,  who  have  conquered  in  fifteen  fights?"  said  the  gigan- 
tic Niger,  stalking  up  to  the  gladiator. 

"  Or  me?"  grunted  Sporus,  with  eyes  of  fire. 

"Tushl"  said  Lydon,  folding  his  arms,  and  regarding  his  rivals 
with  a  reckless  air  of  defiance.  "The  time  of  trial  vnW.  soon 
come;  keep  your  valor  till  then." 

"  Ay,  do,"  said  the  surly  host;  "  and  if  I  press  down  my  thumD 
to  save  you,  may  the  fates  cut  my  thread!" 

"Your  rope,  you  mean,"  said  Lydon,  sneeringly;  "here  is  a 
sesterce  to  buy  one." 

Tl^e  Titan  wine-vender  seized  the  hand  extended  to  him,  and 
gripped  it  in  so  stem  a  vise  that  the  blood  spurted  from  the  fin- 
gers^ end  over  the  garments  of  the  bystanders. 

They  set  up  a  savage  laugh. 

"I  will  teach  thee,  young  braggart,  to  play  the  Macedonian 
with  me?  I  am  no  puny  Persian,  I  warrant  theel  What,  man  I 
have  I  not  fought  twenty  years  in  the  ring,  and  never  lowered 
my  arms  once?  And  have  I  not  received  the  rod  from  the  ae- 
dile's  own  hand  as  a  sign  of  victory,  and  as  a  grace  to  retirement 
on  laurels!  And  am  I  now  to  be  lectured  by  a  boy?"  So  saying, 
he  flung  the  hand  from  him  in  scorn. 

Without  changing  a  musele,  but  witli  the  same  smiling  face 
with  which  he  had  previously  taunted  mine  host,  did  the  gladia- 
tor brave  the  painful  task  he  had  undergone.  But  no  sooner 
was  his  hand  released,  than  crouching  for  one  moment  as  a  wild- 
cat crouches,  you  might  see  his  hair  bristle  on  his  head  and 
beard,  and  with  a  fierce  and  shrill  yell  he  sprang  on  the  throat 
of  the  giant,  with  an  impulse  that  threw  him.  vast  and  sturdr 
as  he  was,  from  his  balance — and  down,  with  the  crash  of  a  fall- 
ing rock  he  fell — while  over  him  fell  also  his  ferocious  foe. 

Our  host,  perhaps,  had  had  no  need  of  the  rope  so  kindly 
recommended  to  him  by  Lydon,  had  he  remained  three  minutes 
longer  in  that  position.  But,  summoned  to  his  assistance  by  the 
noise  of  his  fall,  a  woman,  who  liad  hitherto  kept  in  an  inner 
apartment,  rushed  to  the  scene  of  battle.  Tliis  new  ally  was  in 
herself  a  match  for  the  gladiator;  she  was  tall,  lean,  and  with 
arms  tliat  could  give  other  than  soft  embraces.  In  fact,  the 
gentle  helpmate  of  Burbo  the  wino  seller  had,  like  himself, 
fought  in  the  lists* — nay,  under  the  Emperor's  eye.  And  Burbo 
himself — Burbo,  tlie  unconquered  in  the  field,  according  to  report, 
now  and  then  yielded  the  palm  to  his  soft  Stratonice.  This  sweet 
creature  no  sooner  saw  the  imminent  peril  that  awaited  her 
worse  half,  than  without  other  weapons  than  those  which  nature 

*  Not  only  did  women  soinctinics  light  in  the  amphith«>ater8,  but  eve« 
those  of  noble  birth  participated  in  that  meek  ambition. 


THE  LAST  DA  JS  OF  POMPEIL  63 

had  provided  her,  she  darted  upon  the  incumbent  gladiator,  and, 
clasping  him  round  the  waist  with  her  long  and  snakelike  arms, 
lifted  him  by  a  sudden  wrench  from  the  body  of  her  husband, 
leaving  only  his  hand  still  cHnging  to  the  throat  of  his  foe.  So 
have  we  seen  a  dog  snatched  by  the  hind  legs  from  the  strife 
with  a  fallen  rival  in  the  arms  of  some  envious  groom;  so  have 
we  seen  one  half  of  him  high  in  the  air — passive  and  offenseless 
— while  the  other  half,  head,  teeth,  eyes,  claws,  seemed  buried 
and  engulfed  in  the  mangled  and  prostrate  enemy.  Meanwhila 
the  gladiators,  lapped,  and  pampered,  and  glutted  upon  blood, 
crowded  delightedly  round  the  combatants— their  nostrils  dis- 
tended— their  lips  grinning — their  eyes  gloatingly  fixed  on  the 
bloody  thi'oat  of  the  one,  and  the  indented  talons  of  the  other. 

*'  Hdbet!  (he  has  got  it)  habetr  cried  they,  with  a  sort  of  yell, 
rubbing  their  nervous  hands. 

"  Hon  habeo,  ye  Uars;  I  have  not  got  it  I"  shouted  the  host,  as 
with  a  mighty  effort  he  wrenched  himself  from  those  deadly  hands, 
and  rose  to  his  feet,  breathless,  panting,  lacerated,  bloody;  and 
fronting  with  reelmg  eyes,  the  glaring  look  and  grinning  teeth 
of  his  baffled  foe,  now  stmggling  (but  strugghng  with  disdain)  in 
the  grip  of  the  sturdy  amazon. 

•'  Fair  play!"  cried  the  gladiators:  **  one  to  one;"  and,  crowding 
round  Lydon  and  the  woman,  they  separated  our  pleasing  host 
from  his  courteous  guest. 

But  Lydon,  feeling  ashamed  of  his  present  position,  and  en- 
deavoring in  vain  to  shake  off  the  grasp  of  the  virago,  slipped 
his  hand  into  his  girdle,  and  drew  a  short  knife.  So  menacing 
Vas  his  look,  so  brightly  gleamed  the  blade,  that  Stratonice,  who 
was  used  only  to  that  fashion  of  battle  which  we  moderns  call 
the  pugilistic,  started  back  in  alarm. 

*'  O  gods!"  cried  she,"  the  ruffian! — he  has  concealed  weaponsi 
Is  that  fair?  Is  that  like  a  gentleman  and  a  gladiator?  No,  in- 
deed, I  scorn  such  fellows!"  With  that  she  contemptuously  turned 
her  back  on  the  gladiator,  and  hastened  to  examine  the  condi- 
tion of  her  husband. 

But  he,  as  much  inured  to  the  constitutional  exercise  as  aa 
English  bull-dog  is  to  a  contest  with  a  more  gentle  antagonist, 
h^d  already  recovered  himself.  The  purple  hues  receded  from 
the  surface  of  his  cheek,  the  veins  of  the  forehead  retired  into 
their  wonted  size.  He  shook  himself  with  a  complacent  grunt, 
satisfied  that  he  was  still  alive,  and  then  looking  at  his  foe  from 
head  to  foot  with  an  air  of  more  approbation  than  he  had  ever 
bestowed  upon  him  before — 

"  By  Castor!"  said  he,  "  thou  art  a  stronger  feUow  than  I  took 
thee  for!  I  see  thou  art  a  man  of  merit  and  virtue;  give  me  thy 
hand,  my  hero!" 

"  Jolly  old  Burbo!"  cried  the  gladiators,  applauding;  **  stanch 
to  the  backbone!    Give  him  thy  band,  Lydon." 

*'  Oh,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  gladiator;  "  but  now  I  have  tasted 
his  blood,  I  long  to  lap  the  whole." 

"  By  Hercules!"  returned  the  host,  quite  unmoved,  "this  is 
the  true  gladiator  feehng.  Pollux!  to  think  what  good  training 
may  make  a  man;  why  a  beast  could  not  be  fiercerl" 


64  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIL 

"A  beast  I    O  dullard  I  we  beat  them  hollow,"  cried  Tetraides. 

**Well,  well,"  said  Stratonice,  who  was  now  emplo.yed  in 
fmootLin;:^  her  hair  and  adjusting  her  dress,  "if  ye  are  all  good 
friends  again,  I  recommend  you  to  be  quiet  and  orderly;  for  some 
young  noblemen,  your  patrons  and  backers,  have  sent  to  say 
they  will  come  here  to  pay  you  a  visit;  they  wish  to  see  you 
more  at  their  ease  than  at  the  schools,  before  they  make  up  tlie 
bets  on  the  great  fight  at  the  amphitheater.  So  they  ahvays 
come  to  my  house  for  that  purpose;  they  know  we  only  receive 
the  best  gladiators  in  Pompeii — our  society  is  very  select,  prais- 
ed be  the  godsl" 

**  Yes,'  continued  Burbo,  drinking  off  a  bowl,  or  rather  a  pail 
of  wine,  "a  man  who  has  won  my  laurels  can  only  encourage 
the  brave.  Lydon,  drink,  my  boy;  may  you  have  an  honorable 
old  age  Uke  mine!'' 

"Come  here,"  said  Stratonice,  drawing  her  husband  to  her  af- 
fectionately by  the  ears,  in  tliat  caress  which  Tibullus  has  so 
prettily  described—"  Come  here!" 

"  Not  so  hard,  she  wolfl  thou  art  worse  than  the  gladiator," 
murmured  the  huge  jaws  of  Burbo. 

"Hist!"  said  she,  whispering  him;  "  Calenus  has  just  stole  in, 
disguised,  by  the  back  way.  I  hope  he  has  brought  the 
sesterces." 

"Ho!  hoi  I  will  join  him,"  said  Burbo;  "meanwhile,  I  say, 
keep  a  sharp  eye  on  the  cups — attend  to  the  score.  Let  them  not 
cheat  thee,  wife;  they  are  heroes,  to  be  sure,  but  then  they  are 
arrant  rogues;  Cacus  was  nothing  to  them." 

"  Never  fear  me,  fool!"  was  the  conjugal  reply;  and  Burbo, 
satisfied  with  the  dear  assurance,  strode  through  the  apartment, 
and  sought  the  penetraha  of  his  house. 

"So  those  soft  patrons  are  coming  to  look  at  our  muscles,"  said 
Niger.     "  Who  sent  to  previse  thee  of  it,  my  mistress?" 

"  Lepidus.  He  brings  with  him  Clodius,  the  surest  better  in 
Pompeii,  and  the  young  Greek,  Glaucus." 

"  A  wager  on  a  wager,"  cried  Tetraides;  "  Clodius  bets  on  me, 
for  twenty  sesterces!    What  say  you,  Lydon?" 

"  He  bets  on  mer  said  Lydon. 

"  No,  on  meP^  grunted  Sporus. 

"Dolts!  do  you  think  he  would  prefer  any  of  you  to  Niger?" 
said  the  athlete,  thus  modestly  naming  himself. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Stratonice,  as  she  pierced  a  huge  amphora 
for  her  guests,  who  had  now  seated  themselves  before  one  of  the 
tables,  "  great  men  and  brave,  as  ye  all  think  youi'selves,  which 
of  you  will  fight  the  Numidian  lion  in  case  no  malefactor  should 
be  found  to  deprive  you  of  the  option?" 

"  I  who  have  escaped  your  arms,  stout  Stratonice,"  said  Lydon, 
"  might  saft^ly,  I  think,  encounter  the  lion." 

"  But  tell  me,"  said  Tetraides,  "where  is  that  pretty  young  slave 
of  yours— the  blind  girl,  with  bright  eyes?  I  have  not  seen  her 
in  a  long  time." 

"  Oh!  she  is  too  delicate  for  you,  my  son  of  Neptune,"*  said  the 

♦  Son  of  Neptune— a  Latin  phrase  for  a  boisterous,  ferocious  fellow. 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  65 

hostess,  "  and  too  nice  for  us,  I  think.  We  send  her  into  the 
town  to  sell  flowers  and  sing  to  the  ladies;  she  makes  us  more 
money  so  than  she  would  by  waiting  on  you.  Besides,  she  has 
often  other  employments  which  lie  under  the  rose." 

"  Other  employments!"  said  Niger;  "  you  think  there  is  no  play 
but  the  Corinthian,  If  Nydia  were  twice  the  age  she  is  at  pres- 
ent, she  would  be  equally  fit  for  Vesta— poor  girl!" 

"But,  hark  ye,  Stratonice,"  said  Lydon;  "how  didst  thou 
come  by  so  gentle  and  delicate  a  slave?  She  were  more  meet  for 
the  handmaid  of  some  rich  matron  of  Rome  than  for  thee." 

"  That  is  true,"  returned  Stratonice;  "  and  some  day  or  other  I 
shall  make  my  fortune  by  selling  her.     How  came  I  by  Nydia, 
thou  askest?" 
"  Ay!" 

"Why,  thou  seest,  my  slave — Staphyla — thou  rememberest 
Staphyla,  Niger?" 

"  Ay,  a  large-handed  wench,  with  a  face  like  a  comic  mask. 
How  should  I  forget  her,  by  Pluto,  whose  hand -maid  she  doubt- 
less is  at  this  moment!" 

"  Tush,  brute!  Well,  Staphyla  died  one  day,  and  a  great  loss 
she  was  to  me,  and  I  went  into  the  market  to  buy  me  another 
slave.  But,  by  the  gods!  they  were  all  grown  so  dear  since  I  had 
bought  poor  Staphyla,  and  money  was  so  scarce,  that  I  was 
about  to  leave  the  place  in  despair,  when  a  merchant  plucked  mo 
by  the  robe.  '  Mistress,'  said  he,  '  dost  thou  want  a  slave  cheap? 
I  have  a  child  to  sell — a  bargain.  She  is  but  little,  and  almost  an 
infant,  it  is  true;  but  she  is  quick  and  quiet,  docile  and  clever, 
sings  well  and  is  of  good  blood,  I  assure  you.'  '  Of  what  country?' 
said  I.  '  Thessalian.'  Now  I  knew  the  Thessalians  were  acute 
and  gentle;  so  I  said  I  would  see  tbe  girl.  I  found  her  just  as  you 
see  her  now,  scarcely  smaller  and  scarcely  younger  in  appearance. 
She  looked  patient  and  resigned  enough,  with  her  hands  crossed 
on  her  bosom,  and  her  eyes  downcast.  I  asked  the  merchant  his 
price;  it  was  moderate,  and  I  bought  her  at  once.  The  merchant 
brought  her  to  my  house  and  disappeared  in  an  instant.  Well, 
my  friends,  guess  my  astonishment  when  I  found  she  was  blind! 
Hal  hal  a  clever  fellow  that  merchant!  I  ran  at  once  to  the 
magistrates,  but  the  rogue  was  already  gone  from  Pompeii.  So 
I  was  forced  to  go  home  in  a  very  ill  humor,  I  assure  you;  and 
the  poor  girl  felt  the  effects  of  it  too.  But  it  was  not  her  fault 
that  she  was  blind,  for  she  had  been  so  from  her  birth. 

"  By  degrees,  we  got  reconciled  to  our  purchase.  True,  she  had 
not  the  strength  of  Staphyla,  and  was  of  very  little  use  in  the 
house,  but  she  could  soon  find  her  way  about  the  town  as  well 
as  if  she  had  the  eyes  of  Argus;  and  v.^ben  one  morning  sLe 
brought  us  home  a  handful  of  sesterces,  vrhich  she  said  she  had 
got  for  selhng  some  flowers  she  had  gathered  in  our  poor  little 
garden,  we  thought  the  gods  had  sent  her  to  us.  So  from  that 
time  we  let  her  go  out  as  she  likes,  filling  her  basket  with  flowers, 
which  she  Avreathes  into  garlands  after  the  Thessalian  fashion, 
which  pleases  the  gallants;  and  the  great  people  seem  to  take  a 
fancy  to  her,  for  they  always  pay  her  more  than  they  do  any  otb.er 
flower-^rl,  and  she  brings  all  of  it  home  to  us,  vv-hich  is  more 


66  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEU, 

than  any  other  slave  would  do.  Bo  I  work  for  myself,  but  I  shall 
Boon  afford  from  her  earuings  to  buy  a  second  Staphyla;  doubt- 
less, the  ThessaUan  kidnapper  had  stolen  the  bluid  girl  from 
gentle  parents.  Besides  her  skill  in  the  garlands,  she  sings  and 
plays  on  the  cithara,  which  also  brings  money;  and  lately,  but — 
that  is  a  secret." 

'*  TJiat  is  a  secret  1  What?"  cried  Lydon;  "  art  thou  turned 
Sphinx?" 

"Sphinx,  no — why  Sphinx?" 

'•  Cease  thy  gabble,  good  mistress,  and  bring  us  our  meat — I 
am  hungry,"  said  Sponis,  impatiently. 

**  Andl,  too,"  echoed  the  grim  Niger,  whetting  his  knife  on 
the  palm  of  his  hand. 

The  amazon  stalked  away  to  the  kitchen,  and  soon  returned 
with  a  tray  laden  with  large  pieces  of  meat  half-ra^ ;  for  so,  as 
now,  did  the  heroes  of  a  prize-fight  imagine  they  best  sustained 
their  hardihood  and  ferocity;  they  drew  round  the  table  with  tlie 
eye  of  famished  wolves — the  meat  vanished,  the  wine  flowed.  So 
leave  we  those  important  personages  of  classic  life  to  follow  the 
steps  of  Burbo. 

CHAPTER  n. 

TWO    WORTHIES. 

In  the  earlier  times  of  Rome  the  priesthood  was  a  pro- 
fession, not  of  lucre  but  of  honor.  It  was  embraced  by  the 
noblest  citizens — it  was  forbidden  to  the  plebeians.  After- 
ward, and  long  previous  to  the  present  date,  it  was  equally 
open  to  all  ranks ;  at  least,  that  part  of  the  profession 
which  embraced  the  flamens,  or  priests — not  of  religion  gener- 
ally, but  of  peculiar  gods.  Even  the  priest  of  Jupiter  (the  Fla- 
men  Dialis),  preceded  by  a  lictor,  and  entitled  by  his  office  to  the 
entrance  of  the  senate,  at  first  the  especial  dignity  of  the  patri- 
cians, was  subsequently  the  choice  of  the  people.  The  less  na- 
tional and  less  honored  deities  were  usually  served  by  plebeian 
ministers;  and  many  embraced  the  profession,  as  now  the  Roman 
Catholic  Christians  enter  the  monastic  fraternity,  less  from  the 
impulse  of  devotion  than  the  suggestions  of  a  calculating  pov- 
erty. Thus  Calenus,  the  priest  of  Isis,  wae  of  the  lowest  origin. 
His  relations,  though  not  of  his  parents,  were  freedmen.  He 
had  received  from  them  a  liberal  education,  and  from  his  father 
a  small  patrimony,  which  he  had  soon  exhausted.  He  embraced 
the  priesthood  as  a  last  resource  from  distress.  Whatever  the 
state  emolimients  of  the  sacred  profession,  which  at  that  time 
were  probably  small,  the  officers  of  a  popular  temple  could  never 
complain  of  the  profits  of  their  calling.  There  is  no  profession 
1*0  lucrative  as  that  which  practices  on  the  sui^erstition  of  the 
multitude. 

Calenus  had  but  one  surviving  relative  at  Pompeii,  and  that 
was  Burbo.  Various  dark  and  disreputable  ties,  stronger  than 
those  of  blood,  united  their  hearts  and  interests  ;  and  often  the 
minister  of  Isis  stole  disguised  and  furtively  from  the  supposed 
•liBterity  of  his  devotions:  and  gliding  througrli  the  back  door  of 


THE  LaIST  days  of  POMPEII,  6? 

the  retired  gladiator,  a  man  infamous  alike  by  vices  and  by  pro- 
fession, rejoiced  to  thi-ovv  off  the  last  rag  of  hypocrisy  whicli, 
but  for  the  dictates  of  avarice,  his  ruUng  passion,  would  at  all 
times  have  sat  clumsily  upon  a  nature  too  brutal  for  even  the 
mimicry  of  virtue. 

Wrapped  in  one  of  these  large  mantles  which  came  in  use 
among  the  Romans  in  propoi-tion  as  they  dismissed  the  toga, 
whose  ample  folds  well  concealed  the  form,  and  in  which  a  sort 
of  hood  (attached  to  it)  afforded  no  less  a  security  to  the  features, 
Calenus  now  sat  in  the  small  and  private  chamber  of  the  wine- 
cellar,  whence  a  small  passage  ran  at  once  to  the  back  entrance, 
with  which  nearly  all  the  houses  of  Pompeii  were  furnished. 

Opposite  to  him  sat  the  sturdy  Burbo,  carefully  counting  on 
a  table  between  them  a  little  pile  of  coins  wliich  the  priest  had 
just  poured  from  his  purse — for  purses  were  as  common  then  as 
now,  with  this  difference — they  were  usually  better  furnished  I 

"  You  see,"  said  Calenus,  "  that  we  pay  you  handsomely,  and 
you  ought  to  thank  me  for  recommending  you  to  so  advantage- 
ous a  market." 

*'  I  do,  my  cousin,  I  do,"  replied  Burbo,  affectionately,  as  he 
swept  the  coins  into  a  leathern  receptacle,  which  he  then  deposi- 
ted in  his  girdle,  drawing  the  buckle  round  his  capacious  waist 
more  closely  than  he  was  wont  to  do  in  the  lax  hours  of  his 
domestic  avocations.  "And  by  Isis,  Pisis,  and  Nisis,  or  whatever 
other  gods  there  may  be  in  Egypt,  my  little  Nydia  is  a  very  Hes- 
perides — a  garden  or  gold  to  me." 

**  She  sings  well,  plays  like  a  muse,"  returned  Calenus;  *'  those 
are  virtues  that  he  who  employs  me  always  pays  liberally." 

"  He  is  a  god,"  cried  Burbo,  enthusiastically;  "every  rich  man 
who  is  generous  deserves  to  be  worshiped.  But  come,  a  cup  of 
wine,  old  friend;  tell  me  more  about  it.  What  does  she  do?  she 
is  frightened,  talks  of  her  oath,  and  reveals  nothing." 

"  Nor  will  I,  by  my  right  hand!  I,  too,  have  taken  that  terri- 
ble oath  of  secrecy." 

"  Oath!  what  are  oaths  to  men  like  us?" 

"True,  oaths  of  a  common  fashion;  but  this!" — and  the  stal- 
wart priest  shuddered  as  he  spoke.  "Yet,"  he  continued,  in 
emptying  a  huge  glass  of  unmixed  wine,  ' '  I  will  own  to  thee, 
that  it  is  not  so  much  the  oath  I  dread  as  the  vengeance  of  him 
who  proposed  it.  By  the  gods!  he  is  a  mighty  sorcerer,  and 
could  draw  my  confession  from  the  moon,  did  I  dare  to  make  it 
to  her.  Talk  no  more  of  this.  By  Pollux!  wild  as  those  ban- 
quets are  which  I  enjoy  with  him,  I  am  never  quite  at  my  ease 
there.    I  love,  my  boy,  one  jolly  hour  with  thee,  and  one  of  the 

glain,  unsophisticated,  laughing  girls  that  I  meet  in  this  cham- 
er,  all  smoke-dried  though  it  be,  better  than  whole  nights  of 
those  magnificent  debauches." 

"Ho!  sayest  thou  so?  To-morrow  night,  please  the  gods,  wfl 
will  have  then  a  snug  carousal." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  the  priest,  rubbing  his  hands,  and 
drawing  himself  nearer  to  the  table. 

At  this  moment  they  heard  a  slight  noise  at  the  door,  as  of  on© 
foeling  the  handle.    The  priest  lowered  the  hood  over  his  head. 


68  THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPETI. 

"Tush!"  whisi)ered  the  host,  "it  is  but  the  blind  girl/'  as 
Nydia  opened  tlie  door,  and  entered  the  apartment. 

"Ho!  girl,  and  how  doest  thou?  thou  lookest  pale — thou  hast 
kept  late  revels?  No  matter,  the  young  must  be  always  the 
young,"  said  Burbo,  encouragingly. 

The  girl  made  no  answer,  but  she  dropped  on  one  of  the  seats 
\vith  an  air  of  lassitude.  Her  color  came  and  went  rapidly;  she 
beat  the  floor  impatiently  Avith  her  small  feet,  then  she  suddenly 
raised  her  face,  and  said,  Avith  a  determined  voice: 

'•  Master,  you  may  starve  me  if  you  will — you  may  beat  me — 
you  may  threaten  me  with  death — but  I  will  go  no  more  to  that 
unholy  place!" 

"  How,  fool! "  said  Burbo,  in  a  savage  voice,  and  his  heavy 
brows  met  darkly  over  his  fierce  and  bloodshot  eyes;  "how,  re- 
bellious!   Take  care." 

"I  have  said  it,"  said  the  poor  girl,  crossing  her  hands  on  her 
breast. 

"What!  my  modest  one,  sweet  vestal,  thou  wilt  go  no  morel 
Very  well,  thou  shalt  be  carried." 

"  I  will  raise  the  city  with  my  cries,"  said  she,  passionately, 
and  the  color  mounted  to  her  brow. 

"  We  will  take  care  of  that,  too;  thou  shalt  go  gagged." 

"Then  may  the  gods  help  me!  "said  Nydia,  rising;  "I  will 
appeal  to  the  magistrates." 

"  Thine  oath  remember!''^  said  a  hollow  voice,  as  for  the  first 
time  Calenus  joined  in  the  dialogue. 

At  these  words  a  trembling  shook  the  frame  of  the  unfortunate 
girl;  she  clasped  her  hands  imploringly.  "  Wretch  that  I  am! " 
she  cried,  and  burst  violently  into  sobs. 

Whether  or  not  it  was  the  sound  of  that  vehement  sorrow 
which  brought  the  gentle  Stratonice  to  the  spot,  her  grisly  form 
at  this  moment  appeared  in  the  chamber. 

"  How  now?  what  hast  thou  been  doing  with  my  slave,  brute?" 
said  she,  angrily,  to  Burbo. 

"Be  quiet,  wife,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  half  sullen,  half  timid; 
"you  want  new  girdles  and  fine  clothes,  do  you?  Well,  then, 
take  care  of  your  slave,  or  you  may  want  them  long.  Vce  copiti 
iuo — vengeance  on  thy  head,  wretched  one!" 

"  What  is  this?  "  said  the  hag,  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 

Nydia  started  as  by  a  sudden  impulse  from  the  wall  against 
which  she  had  leaned;  she  threw  herself  at  the  feet  of  Stratonice; 
she  embraced  her  knees,  and  looking  up  at  her  with  those  sight- 
'less  but  touching  eyes — 

"  O  my  mistress!"  sobbed  she,  "you  are  a  woman — you  have 
had  sisters — you  have  been  young  like  me — feel  for  me-^ve  me  I 
I  Avill  go  to  those  horrible  feasts  no  more!  " 

"Stuff! "  said  the  liag,  dragging  her  up  rudely  by  one  of  those 
delicate  hands,  fit  for  no  harsher  labor  than  that  of  weaving  the 
flowers  which  made  her  pleasure  or  her  trade — "  stuff!  these  fine 
Bcruples  are  not  for  slaves." 

"  Hark  ye,"  said  Burbo.  drawing  forth  his  purse,  and  chinking 
its  contents:  "you  hear  this  music,  wife;  by  Pollux!  if  you  do 
not  break  in  yon  colt  with  a  tight  rein,  you  will  hear  it  no  more." 


THE  LAST  DA  IS  OF  POMPEII.  69 

"The  girl  is  tired,"  said  Stratonice,  nodding  to  Caleniis;  "  she 
will  be  more  docile  wlien  you  next  want  her." 

' '  You!  you!  who  is  here?  "  cried  Nydia,  casting  her  eyes  round 
the  apartment  with  so  fearful  and  straining  a  survey,  that 
Calenus  rose  in  alarm  from  his  seat. 

"  She  7?iust  see  with  those  eyes,"  muttered  he. 

"Who  is  here?  Speak,  in  Heaven's  name!  Ah,  if  you  were 
blind  like  me,  you  would  be  less  cruel,"  she  said;  and  slie  again 
burst  into  tears. 

"Take  her  away,"  said  Burbo,  impatiently;  "I  hate  these 
whimperings." 

"  Gomel"  said  Stratonice,  pushing  the  poor  child  by  the  shoul- 
ders. 

Nydia  drew  herself  aside,  with  an  air  to  which  resolution  gave 
dignity. 

"  Hear  me,"  she  said;  "I  have  served  you  faithfully — I,  who 
was  brought  up. — Ah!  my  mother,  my  poor  mother!  didst  thou 
dream  I  should  come  to  this?"  She  dashed  the  tear  from  her 
eyes,  and  proceeded:  "Command  me  in  aught  else,  and  I  will 
obey;  but  I  tell  you  now,  hard,  stem,  inexorable  as  you  are — I 
tell  you  that  I  will  go  there  no  more;  or,  if  I  am  forced  there, 
thai  I  will  implore  the  mercy  of  the  praetor  himself — I  have  said 
it.     Hear  me,  ye  gods,  I  swear!" 

The  hag's  eyes  glowed  with  fire;  she  seized  the  child  by  the 
hair  with  one  hand,  and  raised  on  high  the  other — that  other, 
that  formidable  right  hand,  the  least  blow  of  which  seemed  cap- 
able to  crush  the  frail  and  delicate  form  that  trembled  in  her 
grasp.  That  though  itself  appeared  to  strike  her,  for  she  sus- 
pended the  blow,  changed  her  purpose,  and  dragging  Nydia  to 
the  wall,  seized  from  a  hook  a  rope,  often,  alas!  applied  to  a 
,  similar  purpose,  and  the  next  moment  the  slirill,  the  agonized 
shrieks  of  the  blind  girl  rang  piercingly  through  the  house. 


CHAPTER  III. 

GLAUCUS  MAKES  A  PURCHASE  THAT  AFTERWARD  COSTS  HDI  DEAR. 

"Holla,  my  brave  fellows!"  said  Lepidus,  stooping  his  head,  as 
he  entered  the  low  doorway  of  the  house  of  Bm'bo.  "  We  have 
come  to  see  which  of  you  most  honors  your  lanista."  The  gladi- 
ators rose  from  the  table  in  respect  to  three  gallants  known  to 
he  among  the  gayest  and  richest  youths  of  Pompeii,  and  whose 
voices  were  therefore  the  dispensers  of  amphitheatrical  reputation. 

"What  fine  animals!"  said  Clodius  to  Glaucus:  "  worthy  to  be 
gladiators?" 

"  It  is  a  pity  they  are  not  warriors,"  returned  Glaucus. 

A  singular  tiling  it  was  to  see  the  dainty  and  fastidious  Lepi- 
dus, whom  in  a  banquet  a  ray  of  daylight  seemed  to  blind — whom 
in  a  bath  a  breeze  of  air  seemed  to  blast — in  whom  Nature  seemed 
twisted  and  perverted  from  every  natural  impulse,  and  curled 
into  one  dubious  thing  of  efl'eminacy  and  art — a  singular  thing  it 
was  to  see  this  Lepidus,  now  all  eagerness,  and  energy,  and  life, 
patting  the  vast  shoulders  of  the  gladiators  with  a  blanched  and 
girlish  hand,  feeling  with  a  mincing  grip  theii-  great  brawn  and 


70  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII, 

iron  muscles,  and  lost  in  calculating  admiration  at  that  manhood 
which  he  had  spent  his  life  in  carefully  banishing  from  himself. 

So  have  we  seen  at  this  day  the  beardless  flutterers  of  the 
Baloous  of  London  thronging  round  the  heroes  of  the  Fives-court; 
so  we  have  seen  them  admire,  and  gaze,  and  calculate  a  bet;  so 
have  we  seen  them  meet  together,  in  ludicrous  yet  in  melancholy 
assemblage,  the  two  extremes  of  civilized  society — the  patrons 
of  pleasure  and  its  slaves:  vilest  of  all  slaves;  at  once  ferocious 
and  mercenary;  male  prostitutes,  who  sell  their  strength  as  wo- 
men their  beauty;  beasts  in  act,  but  baser  than  beasts  in  motive, 
for  the  last,  at  least,  do  not  mangle  themselves  for  moneyl 

"Ha!  Niger,  how  will  you  fight,"  said  Lepidus,  "  and  with 
whom?" 

•'  Sporus  challenges  me,"  said  the  grim  giant;  "  we  shall  fight 
to  the  death,  I  hope." 

"Ah,  to  be  sure,"  grunted  Sporus,  with  a  twinkle  of  his  small 
eye. 

"  He  takes  the  sword,  I  the  net  and  the  trident;  it  will  be  rare 
sport.  I  hope  the  survivor  will  have  enough  to  do  to  keep  up 
the  dignity  of  the  crown." 

"Never  fear,  we'll  fill  the  purse,  my  Hector,"  said  Clodius; 
"  let  me  see — you  fight  against  Niger?  Glaucus,  a  bet — I  back 
Niger." 

"  I  told  you  so,"  cned  Niger  exultingly.  "  The  noble  Claudius 
knows  me;  count  yourself  dead  already,  my  Sporus." 

Claudius  took  out  his  tablet — "A  bet — ten  sestertia.*  What 
say  you?" 

"  So  be  it,"  said  Glaucus.  "  But  whom  have  we  here?  I  never 
saw  this  hero  before;"  and  he  glanced  at  Lydon,  whose  limbs 
were  slighter  than  those  of  his  companions,  and  who  had  some 
thing  of  graces  and  something  even  of  nobleness,  in  his  face, 
which  his  profession  had  not  yet  wholly  destroyed. 

"  It  is  Lydon,  a  youngster,  practiced  only  with  the  wooden 
sword  as  yet,"  answered  Niger,  condescendingly.  "But  he  haa 
the  true  blood  in  him,  and  has  challenged  Tertraides." 

"//e  challenged  me.''  said  Lydon:  "I  accept  the  offer." 

"  And  how  do  you  fight?"  asked  Lepidus.  "Chut,  my  boy, 
wait  a  while  before  you  contend  with  Tetraides."  Lydon  smiled 
disdainfully. 

"  Is  lie  a  citizen  or  a  slave?"  said  Clodius. 

"A  citizen — w^e  are  all  citizens  here,"  quoth  Niger. 

"  Stretch  out  your  arm,  my  Lydon,"  said  Lepidus,  with  the 
air  of  a  connoisseur. 

The  gladiator,  with  a  significant  glance  at  his  companions,  ex- 
tended an  arm,  which,  if  not  so  huge  in  its  girth  as  those  of  his 
comrades,  was  so  firm  in  its  muscles,  so  beautifully  symmetrical 
in  /ts  proportions,  that  the  three  visitors  uttered  simultaneously 
an  admiring  exclamation. 

"Well,  man,  what  is  your  weapon?"  said  Clodius,  tablet  in 
hand. 

"  We  are  to  fight  first  with  the  cestus  ;  aft<*rward,  ii  both  kSH»^ 

*  A  Uttle  more  than  $400. 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII,  71 

Vive,  with  swords,"  returned  Tetraides,  sharply,  aiwd  with  an  en- 
vious scowl. 

"  With  the  cestus!"  cried  Glaucus;  *'  there  you  are  wrong,  Lv- 
don;  the  cestus  is  the  Greek  fashion;  I  know  it  well.  You  should 
have  encouraged  flesh  for  that  contest;  you  are  far  too  tliin  for  it 
^avoid  the  cestus." 

"  I  cannot,"  said  Lydon. 

**  And  why?" 

"  I  have  said — because  he  has  challenged  me." 

**  But  he  will  not  hold  you  to  the  precise  weapon." 

**  My  honor  holds  me!"  returned  Lydon,  proudly. 

**I  bet  on  Tetraides,  two  to  one,  at  the  cestus,"  said  Clodius; 
"shall  it  be,  Lepidus? — even  betting,  with  swords." 

"  If  you  give  me  three  to  one,  I  will  not  take  the  odds,"  said 
Lepidus:  "Lydon  will  never  come  to  the  swords.  You  are 
mighty  courteous." 

"  What  say  you,  Glaucus?"  said  Clodius. 
•  I  will  take  the  odds  three  to  one." 

*'  Ten  sestertia  to  thirty." 

"  Yes." 

Clodius  wrote  the  bet  in  his  book. 

"Pardon  me,  noble  sponsor  mine,"  said  Lydon,  in  a  low  voice 
to  Glaucus;  "  but  how  much  tliink  you  the  victor  will  gain?"   ' 

"  How  much?  why,  perhaps  seven  sestertia." 

"  You  are  sure  it  will  be  as  much?" 

"  At  least.  But  out  on  you! — a  Greek  would  have  thought  of 
the  honor,  and  not  the  money.  O  Italians!  everywhere  ye  are 
Italians!" 

A  blush  mantled  over  the  bronzed  cheek  of  the  gladiator. 

"  Do  not  wrong  me,  noble  Glaucus;  I  think  of  both,  but  I 
should  never  have  been  a  gladiator  but  for  the  money." 

"  Base!  may  est  thou  fall!    A  miser  never  was  a  hero." 

"I  ain  not  a  miser,"  said  Lydon,  haughtily,  and  he  withdrew 
to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"But  I  don't  see  Burbo;  where  is  Burbo?  I  must  talk  with 
Burbo,"  cried  Clodius. 

"  He  is  within,"  said  Niger,  pointing  to  the  door  at  the  extrem- 
ity of  the  room. 

"And  Stratonice,  the  brave  old  lass,  where  is  she?"  quoth  Lep- 
idus. 

"Why,  she  was  here  just  before  you  entered;  but  she  heard 
something  that  displeased  her  yonder,  and  vanished.  Pollux! 
old  Burbo  had  perliaps  caught  hold  of  some  girl  in  the  back  room, 
I  heard  a  female's  voice  crying  out;  the  old  dame  is  as  jealous 
as  Juno." 

"  Ho!  excellent!"  cried  Lepidus,  laughing.  "  Come,  Clodius^ 
let  us  go  shares  with  Jupiter;  perhaps  he  has  caught  a  Leda." 

At  this  moment  a  loud  cry  of  pain  and  terror  startled  the 
group. 

"  Oh,  spare  me!  spare  me!  I  am  but  a  child,  I  am  blind — is  not 
t/iaf  punishment  enough?" 

"  Oh,  Pallas!  I  know  that  voice,  it  is  my  poor  flower  girl!"  ex- 


■?«  TBE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEIL 

claimed  Glaucus,  and  he  darted  at  once  into  the  quarter  whence 
the  cry  rose. 

He  burst  the  door;  he  beheld  Nydia  writhing  in  the  grasp  of 
the  infuriated  hag;  the  cord,  already  dabbled  with  blood,  was 
raised  in  the  air — it  was  suddenly  arrested. 

'*  Fury  I"  said  Glaucus,  and  with  his  left  hand  he  caught  Nydia 
from  her  grasp;  "  how  dare  you  use  thus  a  girl — one  of  your 
own  sex,  a  child  I    My  Nydia,  my  poor  infant  I" 

"  OhI  is  that  you — is  that  Glaucus?"  exclaimed  the  flower-girl, 
in  a  tone  almost  of  transport;  the  tears  stood  arrested  on  her 
cheek;  she  smiled,  she  clung  to  his  breast,  she  kissed  his  robe  as 
she  clung. 

"And  how  dare  you,  pert  stranger  I  interfere  between  a  free 
woman  and  her  slave.  By  the  godsl  despite  your  fine  tunic  and 
your  filthy  perfumes,  I  doubt  whether  you  are  even  a  Roman 
citizen,  my  manikin." 

**  Fair  words,  mistress — fair  words!"  said  Clodius,  now  enter- 
ing with  Lepidus,  **This  is  my  friend  and  sworn  brother;  he 
must  be  put  under  shelter  of  your  tongue,  sweet  one;  it  rains 
stones  1" 

"  Give  me  my  slave!"  shrieked  the  virago,  placing  her  mighty 
grasp  on  the  breast  of  the  Greek. 

'*  Not  if  all  your  sister  Furies  could  help  you,"  answered  Glau- 
cus. "Fear  not,  sweet  Nydia;  an  Athenian  never  forsook  dis- 
tress!" 

"  Holla!"  said  Burbo,  rising  reluctantly,  "  what  turmoil  is  all 
this  about  a  slave?  Let  go  the  young  gentleman,  wife — let  him 
go;  for  his  sake  the  pert  thing  shall  be  spared  this  once."  So 
saying,  he  drew,  or  rather  dragged  off,  his  ferocious  helpmate. 

"  Methought  when  we  entered,"  said  Clodius,  "there  was  an- 
other man  present?" 

"He  is  gone." 

For  the  priest  of  Isis  had  indeed  thought  it  high  time  to  van- 
ish. 

"Oh,  a  friend  of  mine!  a  brother  cupman,  a  quiet  dog,  who 
does  not  love  these  snarlings,"  said  Burbo,  carelessly.  "  But  go, 
cliild,  you  will  tear  the  gentleman's  tunic  if  you  cling  to  him  so 
tight;  go,  you  are  pardoned." 

"  Oh,  do  not — do  not  forsake  mel"  cried  Nydia,  clinging  yet 
closer  to  the  Athenian. 

Moved  by  her  forlorn  situation,  her  appeal  to  him.  her  own  in- 
numerable and  touching  graces,  the  Greek  seated  himself  on  one 
of  the  rude  chairs.  He  held  her  on  his  knees— he  wiped  the  blood 
from  her  shoulders  with  his  long  hair— he  kissed  the  tears  from 
her  cheeks — he  whispered  to  her  a  thousand  of  those  soothing 
words  with  which  we  calm  the  grief  of  a  child;  and  so  beautiful 
did  he  seem  in  his  gentle  and  consoling  task,  that  even  the  fierce 
heart  of  Stratonice  was  touched.  His  presence  seemed  to  shed 
light  over  that  base  and  obscene  haunt— young,  beautiful,  glori- 
ous, he  was  the  emblem  of  all  that  earth  made  most  happy,  com- 
forting one  that  earth  had  abandoned! 

"  Well,  who  could  have  tliought  our  blind  Nydia  had  been  so 
honored?"  said  the  virago,  wiping  her  heated  brow. 


THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII,  78 

Glaucus  looked  up  at  Burbo. 

"My  good  man,"  said  he,  "  this  is  your  slave;  she  sings  well, 
she  is  accustomed  to  the  care  of  flowers — I  wish  to  make  a  pres- 
ent of  such  a  slave  to  a  lady.  Will  you  sell  her  to  me?"  As  he 
spoke  he  felt  the  whole  frame  of  the  poor  girl  tremble  with  de- 
light; she  started  up,  she  put  her  disheveled  hair  from  her  eyes, 
she  looked  around,  as  if,  alas!  she  had  the  power  to  see! 

'*  Sell  our  Nydia!  no,  indeed,"  said  Stratonice,  gruffly. 

Nydia  sank  back  with  a  long  sigh,  and  again  clasped  the  rob« 
of  her  protector. 

"  Nonsense  I"  said  Clodius,  imperiously;  '*  you  must  oblige  me. 
What,  man!  what,  old  dame!  offend  me,  and  your  trade  is 
ruined.  Is  not  Burbo  my  kinsman  Pansa's  client?  Am  I  not 
the  oracle  of  the  amphitheater  and  its  heroes?  If  I  say  the  word, 
break  up  your  wine- jars — you  sell  no  more.  Glaucus,  the  slave 
is  yours." 

Burbo  scratched  his  huge  head  in  evident  embarrassment. 

"  The  girl  is  worth  her  weight  in  gold  to  me." 

"Name  your  price,  I  am  rich,"  said  Glaucus. 

The  ancient  Italians  were  like  the  modern,  there  was  nothing 
they  would  not  sell,  much  less  a  poor  blind  girl. 

"  I  paid  six  sestertia  for  her,  she  is  worth  twelve  now,"  mutter- 
ed Stratonice. 

"You  shall  have  twenty;  come  to  the  magistrates  at  once,  and 
then  to  my  house  for  your  money." 

"  I  would  not  have  sold  the  dear  girl  for  a  hundred,  but  to 
oblige  noble  Clodius,"  said  Burbo,  whiningly.  "  And  you  will 
speak  to  Pansa  about  the  place  of  designator  at  the  amphitheater, 
noble  Clodius?  it  would  just  suit  me." 

"  Thou  shalt  have  it,"  said  Clodius;  adding  in  a  whisper  to 
Burbo,  "  Yon  Greek  can  make  your  fortune;  money  runs  thi'ough 
him  like  a  sieve;  mark  to-day  with  white  chalk,  my  Priam." 

'^An  dahis  f  said  Glaucus,  in  the  formal  question  of  sale  and 
barter. 

"Dabetur,^^  answered  Burbo. 

"  Then,  then,  I  am  to  go  with  you — with  you  ?  O  happiness !" 
murmured  Nydia. 

"  Pretty  one,  yes;  and  thy  hardest  task  henceforth  shall  be  to 
sing  thy  Grecian  hymns  to  the  loveliest  lady  in  PompeiL" 

The  girl  sprang  from  his  clasp;  a  change  came  over  her  whole 
face,  so  bright  the  instant  before;  she  sighed  heavily,  and  then 
once  more  taking  his  hand  she  said — 

"  I  thought  I  was  to  go  to  your  house  ?" 

"  And  so  thou  shalt  for  the  present;  come,  we  lose  no  time." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  RIVAL  OF  GLAUCUS  PRESSES  ONWARD  IN  THE  RACE. 

lONE  was  one  of  those  brilliant  characters  which,  but  once  or 
twice,  flash  across  our  career.  She  united  in  the  highest  perfec- 
tion the  rarest  of  earthly  gifts— Genius  and  Beauty.  No  one  ever 
possessed  superior  intellectual  qualities  without  knowing  them — 
th©  alliteration  of  modesty  and  merit  is  pretty  enough,  but  where 


H  THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEII 

merit  is  great,  the  veil  of  that  modesty  you  admire  never  dis- 
guises its  extent  from  its  possessor.  It  is  the  proud  consciousness 
of  certain  qualities  that  it  cannot  reveal  to  the  every-day  world, 
that  gives  to  genius  that  shy,  and  reserved,  and  troubled  air, 
which  puzzles  and  flatters  you  when  you  encounter  it. 

lone,  then,  knew  her  genius;  but,  with  that  charming  versa- 
tility that  belongs  of  right  to  women,  she  had  the  faculty,  so  few 
of  a  kindred  genius  in  the  less  malleable  sex  can  claim — the 
faculty  to  bend  and  model  her  graceful  intellect  to  all  whom  it 
encountered.  The  sparkling  fountain  tlirew  its  waters  alike 
upon  the  strand,  the  cavern,  and  the  flo^vers;  it  refreshed,  it 
smiled,  it  dazzled  e very  wl  lere.  That  pride,  which  is  the  necessary 
result  of  superiority,  she  wore  easily — in  her  breast  it  concentra- 
ted itself  in  independence.  She  pursued  thus  her  own  bright 
and  solitary  path.  She  asked  no  aged  matron  to  direct  and  guide 
her,  she  walked  alone  by  the  torch  of  her  o^;nti  unflickering  purity. 
She  obeyed  no  tyrannical  and  absolute  custom.  She  molded 
custom  to  her  own  will,  but  this  so  delicately  and  with  so  femi- 
nine a  grace,  so  perfect  an  exemption  from  error,  that  you  could 
not  say  she  outraged  custom,  but  commanded  it.  The  wealth  of 
her  graces  was  inexhaustible — she  beautified  the  commonest 
action;  a  word,  a  look  from  her,  seemed  magic.  Love  her,  and 
you  entered  into  a  new  world,  you  passed  from  this  trite  and  com- 
mon-place earth.  You  were  in  a  land  in  which  your  eyes  saw 
everything  through  an  enchanted  medium.  In  her  presence  you 
felt  as  if  listening  to  exquisite  music;  and  you  were  steeped  in 
that  sentiment  which  has  so  little  of  earth  in  it,  that  which 
music  so  well  inspires— that  intoxication  which  so  well  exalts, 
which  seizes,  it  is  true,  the  senses,  but  gives  them  the  character 
of  the  soul. 

She  was  peculiarly  formed,  then,  to  command  and  fascinate 
the  less  ordinary  and  the  bolder  natures  of  men;  to  love  her  was 
to  unite  two  passions,  that  of  love  and  of  ambition — you  aspired 
when  you  adored  her.  It  was  no  wonder  that  she  had  com- 
pletely chained  and  subdued  the  mysterious  but  burning  soul  of 
the  Egyptian,  a  man  in  whom  dwelt  the  fiercest  passions.  Her 
beauty  and  her  soul  ahke  enthralled  him. 

Set  apart  himself  from  the  common  world,  he  loved  that  dar- 
in^ess  of  character  which  also  made  itself,  among  common 
things,  aloof  and  alone.  He  did  not,  or  he  would  not,  see  that 
the  very  isolation  put  her  yet  more  from  him  than  from  the  vul- 
gar. Far  as  the  poles — far  as  the  night  from  day,  his  solitude 
was  divided  from  hers.  He  was  solitary  from  his  dark  and  sol- 
emn vices — she  from  her  beautiful  fancies  and  her  purity  of  ^^r- 
tue. 

If  it  was  not  strange  that  lone  thus  enthralled  the  Egyptian,  far 
less  strange  was  it  that  she  had  captured,  as  suddenly  as  irrevo- 
cably, the  bright  and  sunny  heart  of  the  Athenian.  The  glad- 
ness of  a  temperament  which  seemed  woven  from  the  beams  of 
light  had  led  Olaucus  into  ]>leasure.  He  obeyed  no  more  vicious 
dictates  when  he  wandered  into  the  dissipations  of  his  time,  than 
the  exhilarating  voices  of  youtli  and  health.  He  threw  the 
brightness  of  his  nature  over  everjr  al^a#»  and  cavern  through 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII,  W 

which  he  strayed.  His  imftgination  dazzled  him,  but  his  heart? 
never  was  coiTupted.  Of  far  more  peneti-ation  than  his  com- 
panions deemed,  he  saw  that  they  sought  to  prey  upon  his  riches 
and  his  youth;  but  he  despised  wealth  save  as  the  means  of  en- 
joyment, and  youth  was  the  great  sympathy  that  united  him  to 
them.  He  felt,  it  is  true,  the  impulse  of  nobler  thoughts  and 
higher  aims  than  in  pleasure  could  be  indulged;  but  the  world 
was  one  vast  prison,  to  which  the  Sovereign  of  Rome  was  the 
Imperial  jailer;  and  the  very  vii-tues,  which  in  the  free  days  of 
Athens  would  have  made  him  ambitious,  in  the  slavery  of  earth 
made  him  inactive  and  supine.  For  in  that  unnatural  and  bloated 
civilization,  all  that  was  noble  in  emulation  was  forbidden.  Am- 
bition in  the  regions  of  a  despotic  and  luxurious  court  was  but 
the  contest  of  flattery  and  craft.  Avarice  had  become  the  sole 
ambition,  men  desired  praetorships  and  provinces  only  as  the  li- 
cense to  pillage,  and  government  was  but  the  excuse  of  rapine. 
It  is  in  small  states  that  glory  is  most  active  and  pure — the  more 
confined  the  limits  of  the  circle,  the  more  ardent  the  patriotism. 
In  small  states  opinion  is  concentrated  and  strong — every  eye 
reads  your  actions — your  public  motives  are  blended  with  your 
private  ties — every  spot  in  your  narrow  sphere  is  crowded  with 
forms  familiar  since  your  childhood — the  applause  of  your  citi- 
zens is  hke  the  caresses  of  your  friends.  But  in  large  states  the 
city  is  but  the  court;  the  provinces— unknown  to  you,  unfamiHar 
in  customs,  perhaps  in  language — have  no  claim  on  your  patri- 
otism, the  ancestry  of  their  inhabitants  is  not  yours.  In  the 
court  you  desire  favor  instead  of  glory;  at  a  distance  from  the 
coui-t  public  opinion  has  vanished  from  you,  and  self-interest  has 
no  counterpoise. 

Italy— Italy,  while  I  write  your  skies  are  over  me — your  seas 
flow  beneath  my  feet;  listen  not  to  the  blind  policy  which  would 
unite  all  your  crested  cities,  mourning  for  their  republics,  into 
one  empire;  false,  pernicious  delusion!  your  only  hope  of  regen- 
eration is  in  division.  Florence,  Milan,  Venice,  Genoa,  may  be 
free  once  more,  if  each  is  free.  But  dream  not  of  freedom  for 
the  whole  while  you  enslave  the  parts;  the  heart  must  be  the 
center  of  the  system,  the  blood  must  circulate  freely  everywhere; 
and  in  vast  communities  you  behold  but  a  bloated  and  feeble 
giant,  whose  brain  is  imbecile,  whose  limbs  are  dead,  and  who 
pays  in  disease  and  weakness  the  penalty  of  transcending  the 
natural  proportions  of  health  and  vigor. 

Thus  thrown  back  upon  themselves,  the  more  ardent  qualities 
of  Glaucus  found  no  vent,  save  in  that  overflowing  imagination 
which  gave  grace  to  pleasui-e,  and  poetry  to  thought.  Ease  was 
less  despicable  than  contention  with  parasites  and  slaves,  and 
luxury  could  yet  be  refined  though  ambition  could  not  be  enno- 
bled. But  all  that  was  best  and  brightest  in  his  soul  woke  at 
once  when  he  knew  lone.  Here  was  an  empire  worthy  of  demi- 
gods to  attain — here  was  a  glory,  which  the  reeking  smoke  of  a 
foul  society  could  not  soil  or  dim.  Love,  in  every  time,  in  every 
Btate,  can  thus  find  space  for  its  golden  altars.  And  tell  me  if 
there  ever,  even  in  the  ages  most  favorable  to  glory,  could  be  a 
triumph  more  exalted  and  elating  than  the  conquest  of  one  heart? 


7«  TSE  LAST  J) AYS  OF  POMPEII, 

And  whether  it  was  that  this  sentiment  inspired  him,  his  ideas 
glowed  more  briglitlj,  liis  soul  seemed  more  awake  and  visible 
in  lone's  presence.  If  natural  to  love  her,  it  was  natural  that 
ehe  should  return  the  passion.  Young,  brilliant,  eloquent,  en- 
amored and  Athenian,  he  was  to  lier  as  the  incarnation  of  the 
poetry  of  lier  father's  land.  They  were  not  like  creatures  of  a 
world  in  which  strife  and  sorrow  are  the  elements;  they  were 
like  things  to  be  seen  only  in  the  holiday  of  nature,  so  glorious 
and  so  fresh  were  their  youth,  their  beauty,  and  their  love.  They 
seemed  out  of  place  in  the  harsh  and  every-day  earth;  they  be- 
longed of  right  to  the  Saturnian  age,  and  the  dreams  of  demigod 
and  nymph.  It  was  as  if  the  poetry  of  life  gathered  and  fed  itself 
in  them,  and  in  their  hearts  were  concentrated  the  last  rays  of 
the  sun  of  Delos  and  of  Greece. 

But  if  lone  was  independent  in  her  choice  of  life,  so  was  her 
modest  pride  proportionately  vigilant  and  easily  alarmed.  The 
falsehood  of  the  Egyptian  was  invented  by  a  deep  knowledge  of 
her  nature.  Tlie  story  of  coarseness,  of  indelicacy,  in  Glaucus, 
stimg  her  to  the  quick.  She  felt  it  a  reproach  upon  her  character 
and  lier  career;  a  punishment  above  all,  to  her  love.  She  felt,  for 
the  fu-st  time,  how  suddenly  she  had  yielded  to  that  love;  she 
blushed  with  shame  at  a  weakness,  the  extent  of  which  she  was 
startled  to  perceive.  She  imagined  it  was  that  weakness  which  had 
incurred  the  contempt  of  Glaucus;  she  endured  the  bitterest  curse 
of  noble  natures — humiliation!  Yet  her  love,  perhaps,  was  no 
less  alarmed  than  her  pride.     If  one  moment  she  murmm-ed  re- 

{)roaches  upon  Glaucus — if  one  moment  she  renounced,  she  almost 
lated  him — at  the  next  she  burst  into  passionate  tears,  her  heart 
yielded  to  its  softness,  and  she  said,  in  the  bitterness  of  anguish, 
'*  He  despises  me — he  does  not  love  me." 

From  the  hour  the  Egyptian  had  left  her.  she  had  retired  to 
her  most  secluded  chamber,  she  had  shutout  her  handmaids,  she 
had  denied  lierself  to  the  crowds  that  besieged  her  door.  Glau- 
cus was  excluded  with  the  rest;  he  wondered,  but  he  guessed  not 
wliy!  He  never  attnbuted  to  his  lone — his  queen — his  goddess — 
tliat  woman-like  caprice  of  which  the  love-poets  of  Italy  so  un- 
ceasingly complain.  He  imagined  her,  in  the  majesty  of  her 
candor,  above  all  the  arts  that  torture.  He  was  troubled,  but  liis 
hopes  were  not  dimmed,  for  he  knew  already  that  he  loved  and 
A\aH  beloved;  what  raore  could  ho  desire  as  an  amulet  against 
fear? 

At  deepest  night,  then,  when  the  streets  were  hushed,  and  the 
high  moon  only  beheld  his  devotions,  he  stole  to  the  temple  of  hia 
heart — her  home;  and  wooed  her  after  the  beautiful  fashion  of 
his  c»  untry.  He  covered  her  threshold  with  the  richest  garlands, 
in  wl  ich  every  flower  was  a  volume  of  sweet  passion;  and  he 
charn  ed  the  long  summer  night  with  the  sound  of  the  Lycian 
lute,  a  id  verses  which  the  inspiration  of  the  moment  sufficed  to 
weave. 

But  .  he  window  above  opened  not ;  no  smile  made  yet  more 
holy  thr  shining  air  of  night.  All  was  still  dark,  He  knew  not 
if  his  verse  was  welcome  and  liis  suit  was  heard. 

Yet  lone  slept  not,  nor  disdained  to  hear.    Those  soft  strains 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  77 

ascended  to  her  chamber,  they  soothed,  they  subdued  her.  While 
she  listened  she  believed  nothing  against  her  lover;  but  when 
they  were  stilled  at  last,  and  his  step  departed,  the  spell  ceased  ; 
and,  in  the  bitterness  of  her  soul,  she  almost  conceived  in  that 
delicate  flattery  a  new  affront. 

I  said  she  was  denied  to  all;  but  there  was  one  exception,  there 
was  one  person  who  would  not  be  denied,  assuming  over  her 
actions  and  her  house  something  like  the  authority  of  a  parent; 
Arbaces,  for  himself,  claimed  an  exemption  from  all  the 
ceremonies  observed  by  others.  He  entered  the  threshold  with 
the  license  of  one  -jvho  feels  that  he  is  privileged  and  at  home.  He 
TQade  his  way  to  her  solitude,  and  with  that  sort  of  quiet  and  un- 
apologetic  air  which  seemed  to  consider  the  right  as  a  thing  of 
course.  With  all  the  independence  of  Tone's  character,  his  art 
had  enabled  him  to  obtain  a  secret  and  powerful  control  over  her 
mind.  She  could  not  shake  it  off;  sometimes  she  desired  to  do 
so;  but  she  never  actively  struggled  against  it.  She  was  fasci- 
nated by  his  serpent  eye.  He  aiTested,  he  commanded  her,  by 
the  magic  of  a  mind  long  accustomed  to  awe  and  to  subdue. 
Utterly  imaware  of  his  real  character  or  his  hidden  love,  she 
felt  for  him  the  reverence  which  genius  feels  for  wisdom,  and 
virtue  for  sanctity.  She  regarded  him  as  one  of  those  mighty 
sages  of  old,  who  attained  to  the  mysteries  of  knowledge  by  an 
exemption  from  the  passions  of  their  kind.  She  scarcely  con- 
sidered him  as  a  being,  Uke  herself,  of  the  earth,  but  as  an  oracle 
at  once  dark  and  sacred.  She  did  not  love  him,  but  she  feared. 
His  presence  was  unwelcome  to  her;  it  dimmed  her  spirit  even 
in  its  brightest  mood;  he  seemed,  with  his  chilling  and  lofty 
aspect,  like  some  eminence  which  casts  a  shadow  over  the  sun. 
But  she  never  thought  of  forbidding  his  visits,  She  was  passive 
under  the  influence  which  created  in  her  breast,  not  the 
repugnance,  but  something  of  the  stillness  of  terror. 

Arbaces  himself  now  resolved  to  exert  aU  his  arts  to  possess 
himself  of  that  treasure  he  so  burningly  coveted.  He  was 
cheered  and  elated  by  his  conquests  over  her  brother.  From  the 
hour  in  which  Apaecides  fell  beneath  the  voluptuous  sorcery  of 
that  fete,  which  we  have  described,  he  felt  his  empire  over  the 
young  priest  triumphant  and  insured.  He  knew  that  there  is  no 
victim  so  thorougMy  subdued  as  a  young  and  fervent  man  for 
the  first  time  delivered  to  the  thralldom  of  the  senses. 

When  Apgecides  recovered,  with  the  morning  light,  from  the 
profound  sleep  which  succeeded  to  the  delirium  of  wonder  and 
of  pleasure,  he  was,  it  is  true,  ashamed — terrified,  appalled.  His 
vows  of  austerity  and  celibacy  echoed  in  his  ear;  his  thirst  after 
holiness — had  it  been  quenched  at  so  unhallowed  a  stream?  But 
Arbaces  knew  well  the  means  by  which  to  confirm  his  conquest. 

From  the  ai"ts  of  pleasure  he  led  the  young  priest  at  once  to 
those  of  his  mysterious  wisdom.  He  bared  to  his  amazed  eyes 
the  initiatory  secrets  of  the  somber  philosophy  of  the  Nile:  those 
secrets  plucked  from  the  stars,  and  the  wild  chemistry,  which, 
in  those  days,  when  Reason  herself  was  but  the  creature  of 
Imagination,  might  well  pass  for  the  lore  of  a  diviner  magic, 
ge  seemed  to  the  young  eyes  of  the  priest  as  a  being  abov^ 


7S  THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII, 

mortality,  and  endowed  with  supernatural  p^ifts.  That  yearn- 
ing and  intense  desire  for  the  knowledge  which  is  not  of  earth, 
which  had  burned  from  his  boyhood  in  the  heart  of  the  priest, 
was  dazzled,  until  it  confused  and  mastered  his  clearer  sense. 
He  gave  himself  to  the  art  which  thus  addressed  at  once  the  two 
strongest  of  human  passions,  that  of  pleasure  and  that  of 
knowledge.  He  was  loth  to  believe  that  one  so  wise  could  err, 
that  one  so  lofty  could  stoop  to  deceive.  Entangled  in  the  dark 
web  of  metaphysical  moralities,  he  caught  at  the  excuse  by 
which  the  Egyptian  converted  vice  into  a  virtue.  His  pride  was 
insensibly  flattered  that  Arbaces  had  deigned  to  rank  him  with 
himself,  to  set  him  apart  from  the  laws  which  bound  the  vulgar, 
to  make  him  an  august  participator,  both  in  tlie  mystic  studies 
and  the  magic  fascinations  of  tlie  Egyptian's  solitude.  The  pure 
and  stern  lessons  of  that  creed  to  which  Olinthus  had  sought  to 
make  him  convert,  were  swept  away  from  his  memory  by  the 
deluge  of  new  passions,  and  the  Egyptian,  who  was  versed  in 
the  articles  of  that  true  faitli,  and  who  soon  learned  from  his 
pupil  the  effect  whicli  had  been  produced  upon  him  by  its 
believers,  sought,  not  unskilfully,  to  undo  that  effect,  by  a  tone 
of  reasoning  half-sarcastic  and  half-earnest. 

"  This  faith,"  said  he,  "is  but  a  borrowed  plagiarism  from  one 
of  the  many  allegories  invented  by  our  priests  of  old.  Observe," 
he  added,  pointing  to  a  hieroglyphical  scroll,  "observe  in  these 
andent  figures  the  origin  of  the  Cliristian's  Trinity.  Here  are 
also  the  three  gods— the  Deity,  the  Spirit,  and  the  Son.  Observe 
that  the  epithet  of  the  Son  is  '  Saviour.'  Observe,  that  the  sign 
by  which  his  human  qualities  are  denoted  is  the  cross.  Note 
here,  too,  the  mystic  liistory  of  Osiris,  how  he  put  on  death;  how 
heiay  in  the  grave;  and  how,  tluis  fulfilling  a  solemn  atone- 
ment, he  rose  again  from  the  dead!  In  these  stories  we  but 
design  to  paint  an  allegory  from  the  operations  of  nature,  and 
the  evolutions  of  the  eternal  heavens.  But,  the  allegory  un- 
known, the  types  themselves  have  furnished  to  credulous  nations 
the  materials  of  many  creeds.  They  liave  traveled  to  the  vast 
plains  of  India;  they  have  mixed  themselves  up  in  the  visionary 
speculations  of  the  Greek:  becoming  more  and  more  gross  and 
embodied,  as  they  emerge  farther  from  the  shadows  of  their 
antique  origin,  they  have  assumed  a  human  and  palpable  form 
in  this  novel  faith;  and  the  believers  of  Galilee  are  but  the  un- 
conscious repeaters  of  one  of  the  superstitions  of  the  Nile!" 

This  was  the  last  argument  which  completely  subdued  the 
priest.  It  was  necessary  to  him,  as  to  all,  to  believe  in  some- 
thing; and  undivided  and,  at  last  unrcluctant,  he  surrendered 
himself  to  that  belief  wliich  Arbaces  inculcated,  and  which  all 
that  was  human  in  passion — all  that  was  flattering  in  vanity — 
all  that  was  alluring  to  pleasure,  served  to  invite  to,  and  contrib- 
uted to  confirm. 

This  conquest,  thus  easily  made,  the  Egyptian  could  not  give 
himself  wholly  up  to  the  pursuit  of  a  far  dearer  and  mightier 
object;  and  he  hailed,  in  his  success  with  the  brother,  an  omen 
of  his  triumph  over  the  sister. 

He  had  seen  lone  on  the  day  following  the  revel  w©  have  wiir 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII,  79 

neesed;  and  which  was  also  the  day  after  he  had  poisoned  her 
mind  against  liis  rival.  The  next  day,  and  the  next,  he  saw  her 
also;  and  each  time  he  laid  himself  out  with  consummate  art, 
partly  to  confirm  her  impression  against  Glaucus,  and  princi- 
pally to  prepare  her  for  the  impressions  he  desired  her  to  receive. 
The  proud  lone  took  care  to  conceal  the  anguish  she  endured, 
and  the  pride  of  woman  has  an  hypocrisy  which  ©an  deceive  the 
most  penetrating,  and  shame  the  most  astute.  But  Arbaces  was 
no  less  cautious  not  to  refer  to  a  subject  which  he  felt  was  most 
politic  to  treat  as  of  the  lightest  importance.  He  knew  that  by 
dwelling  much  upon  the  fault  of  a  rival,  you  only  give  him  dig- 
nity in  the  eyes  of  your  mistress;  the  wisest  plan  is,  neither 
loudly  to  hate,  nor  bitterly  to  contemn;  the  wisest  plan  is  to 
lower  him  by  an  indifference  of  tone,  as  if  you  could  not  dream 
that  he  could  be  loved.  Your  safety  is  in  concealing  the  wound 
to  your  own  pride,  and  imperceptibly  alarming  that  of  the  um- 
pire, whose  voice  is  fatel  Such,  in  all  times,  will  be  the  policy 
of  one  who  knows  the  science  of  the  sex — it  was  now  the  Egyp- 
tian's. 

He  recurred  no  more,  then,  to  the  presumption  of  Glaucus;  he 
mentioned  his  name,  but  not  more  often  than  that  of  Clodius 
or  Lepidus.  He  affected  to  class  them  together,  as  things  of  a 
low  and  ephemeral  species;  as  things  wanting  nothing  of  the 
butterfly,  save  its  innocence  and  its  grace.  Sometimes  he  slightly 
alluded  to  some  invented  debauch,  in  which  he  declared  them 
companions;  sometimes  he  adverted  to  them  as  the  anti- 
podes of  those  lofty  and  spiritual  natures,  to  ■whose  order 
that  of  lone  belonged.  Blinded  alike  by  the  pride  of  lone, 
and,  perhaps,  by  his  own,  he  dreamed  not  that  she  already  loved; 
but  he  dreaded  lest  she  might  have  fonned  for  Glaucus  the  first 
fluttering  prepossessions  that  lead  to  love.  And,  secretly,  he 
ground  his  teeth  with  rage  and  jealousy,  when  he  reflected  on 
the  youth,  the  fascinations,  and  the  brilUancy  of  that  formidable 
rival  whom  he  pretended  to  undervalue. 

It  was  on  the  fourth  day  from  the  date  of  the  close  of  the  pre- 
vious book,  that  Arbaces  and  lone  sat  together. 

"You  wear  your  veil  at  home,"  said  the  Egyptian;  "that  is 
not  fair  to  those  whom  you  honor  with  your  friendship." 

*'  But  to  Arbaces,"  answered  lone,  who,  indeed,  had  cast  the 
veil  over  her  features  to  conceal  eyes  red  with  weeping — "to 
Arbaces,  who  looks  only  to  the  mind,  what  matters  it  that  the 
face  is  concealed?" 

"  I  do  look  only  to  the  mind,"  replied  the  Egyptian;  "  show  me 
then  your  face — for  there  I  shall  see  it!" 

"You  grow  gallant  in  the  air  of  Pompeii,"  said  lone,  with  a 
forced  tone  of  gayety. 

"Do  you  think,  fair  lone,  that  it  is  only  at  Pompeii  that  I 
have  learned  to  vahie  you?"  The  Egyptian's  voice  trembled — 
be  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  resumed: 

"There  is  a  love,  beautiful  Greek,  which  is  not  the  love  only 
of  the  thoughtless  and  the  young;  there  is  a  love  which  sees  not 
with  the  eyes,  which  hears  not  with  the  ears;  but  in  which  soul 
is  enamor«}d  of  soul.  The  countryman  of  thy  ancestors,  the  cave- 


80  THE  LAST  DA  TS  OP  POMPEIL 

nursed  Plato,  dreamed  of  such  a  love — his  followers  have  sought 
to  imitate  it;  but  it  is  a  love  that  is  not  for  the  herd  to  echo — it  is 
a  love  that  only  high  and  noble  natures  can  conceive — it  hath 
nothing  in  common  with  the  sympathies  and  ties  of  coarse  affec- 
tion; wrinkles  do  not  revolt  it — homeliness  of  feature  does  not 
deter;  it  asks  youth,  it  is  time,  but  it  asks  it  only  in  the  freshness 
of  tiie  emotions;  it  asks  beauty,  it  is  true,  but  it  is  the  beauty  of 
the  thought  and  of  the  spirit.  Such  is  the  love,  O  lone,  wliich 
is  a  worthy  offering  to  thee  from  the  cold  and  austere.  Austere 
and  cold  thou  deemest  me — sucli  is  the  love  that  I  venture  to 
lay  upon  thy  shrine — thou  canst  receive  it  without  a  blush." 

"Ajid  its  name  is  Frendship!"  replied  lone;  her  answer  was 
innocent,  yet  it  sounded  like  the  reproof  of  one  conscious  of  tbs 
design  of  the  speaker. 

•'  Friendship!"  said  Arbaces,  vehemently.  "No;  that  is  a  woiy^ 
too  often  profaned  to  apply  to  a  sentiment  so  sacred.  Friend'- 
ehipl  it  is  a  tie  that  binds  fools  and  profligates!  Friendship!  it  vt 
the  bond  that  unites  the  frivolous  hearts  of  a  Glaucus  and  (^ 
Clodiusl    Friendship!  no,  that  is  an  affection  of  the  earth,  of  vul* 

far  habits  and  sordid  sympathies;  the  feeling  of  which  I  speak  id 
orrowed  from  the  stars — it  partakes  of  that  mystic  and  ineffable 
yearning,  which  we  feel  when  we  gaze  on  them — it  burns,  yet  it 
purifies — it  is  the  lamp  of  naphtha  in  the  alabaster  vase,  glowing 
with  fragrant  odors,  but  shining  only  through  the  purest  vessels. 
No;  it  is  not  love,  and  it  is  not  friendship,  that  Arbaces  feels  tot 
lone.  Give  it  no  name — earth  has  no  name  for  it — it  is  not  of 
earth — why  debase  it  with  eartlily  epithets  and  earthly  associa- 
tions?" 

Never  before  had  Arbaces  ventured  so  far,  yet  he  felt  his  ground' 
step  by  step;  he  knew  that  he  uttered  a  language  which,  if  at  this 
day  of  affected  platonisms  it  would  speak  unequivocally  to  the 
ears  of  beauty,  was  at  that  time  strange  and  unfamiliar,  to  which 
no  precise  idea  could  be  attached,  from  which  he  could  imper^ 
ceptibly  advance  or  recede,  as  occasion  suited,  as  hope  encour- 
aged or  fear  deterred.  lone  trembled,  though  she  knew  not  why; 
her  veil  liid  her  features,  and  masked  an  expression,  which,  i/ 
seen  by  the  Egyptian,  would  have  at  once  damped  and  enraged 
him;  in  fact,  he  never  was  more  displeasing  to  her— the  bar* 
monious  modulation  of  the  most  suasive  voice  that  ever  disguised 
unhallowed  thought  fell  discordantly  on  her  ear.  Her  whole 
soul  was  still  filled  with  the  image  of  Glaucus;  and  the  accent  of 
tenderness  from  another  only  revolted  and  dismayed;  yet  sl^e  did 
not  conceive  that  any  passion  more  ardent  than  that  platonism 
which  Arbaces  expressed  lurked  Ixnieatb  his  words.  Shetliought 
that  he,  in  truth,  spoke  only  of  the  affection  and  sympathy  of 
the  soul;  but  was  it  not  i^recisely  that  affection  and  that  sym- 
pathy which  had  made  a  part  of  those  emotions  she  felt  for 
Glaucus;  and  could  any  other  footstep  than  his  approach  the 
haunted  adytus  of  her  lieart?" 

Anxious  at  once  to  change  the  conversation,  she  replied,  there- 
fore, with  a  cold  and  indifferent  voice,  "  Whomsoever  Arbaces 
honors  with  the  sentiment  of  esteem,  it  is  natural  that  his 
elevated  wisdom  should  color  that  sentiment  with  its  o"  to  hues; 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII,  81 

it  is  natural  that  his  friendship  should  be  purer  than  that  of 
others,  whose  pursuits  and  errors  he  does  not  deign  to  share. 
But  tell  me,  Arbaces,  hast  thou  seen  my  brother  of  late?  He  has 
not  visited  me  for  several  days;  and  when  I  last  saw  him,  his 
manner  disturbed  and  alarmed  me  much.  I  fear  lest  he  was  too 
precipitaije  in  the  severe  choice  he  has  adopted,  and  that  h© 
repents  an  irrevocable  step." 

"  Be  cheered,  lone,"  replied  the  Egyptian.  *'  It  is  true,  thaifc 
some  little  time  since  he  was  troubled  and  sad  of  spirit;  those 
doubts  beset  him  which  were  likely  to  haunt  one  of  that  fervent 
temperament,  which  ever  ebbs  and  flows,  and  vibrates  between 
excitement  and  exhaustion.  But  he,  lone,  he  came  to  me  in  his 
anxieties  and  his  distress;  he  sought  one  who  pitied  and  loved 
him ;  I  have  calmed  his  mind — I  have  removed  his  doubts — I  have 
taken  him  from  the  threshold  of  Wisdom  into  its  temple;  and 
before  the  majesty  of  the  goddess  Ms  soul  is  hushed  and  soothed. 
Fear  not,  he  will  repent  no  more;  they  who  trust  themselves  to 
Arbaces  never  repent  for  a  moment." 

"  You  rejoice  me,"  answered  lone.  "  My  dear  brother:  in  his 
contentment  I  am  happy." 

The  conversation  then  turned  upon  lighter  subjects;  the  Egyp- 
tian exerted  himself  to  please;  he  condescended  even  to  enter- 
tain; the  vast  variety  of  his  knowledge  enabled  him  to  adorn 
and  light  up  every  subject  on  which  he  touched:  and  lone,  for- 
getting the  displeasing  effect  of  his  former  words,  was  carried 
away,  despite  her  sadness,  by  the  magic  of  his  intellect.  Her 
manner  became  unrestrained  and  her  language  fluent;  and  Arba- 
ces, who  had  waited  his  opportunity,  now  hastened  to  seize  it. 

"  You  have  never  seen,"  said  he,  ''  the  interior  of  my  home; 
it  may  amuse  you  to  do  so;  it  contains  some  rooms  that  may  ex- 
plain to  you  what  you  have  often  asked  me  to  describe — the 
fashion  of  an  Egyptian  house;  not,  indeed,  that  you  will  per- 
ceive in  the  poor  and  minute  proportions  of  Roman  architecture 
the  massive  strength,  the  vast  space,  the  gigantic  magnificence, 
or  even  the  domestic  construction  of  the  palaces  of  Thebes  and 
Memphis;  but  something  there  is,  here  and  there,  that  may  serve 
to  express  to  you  some  notion  of  that  antique  civilization  which 
has  humanized  the  world.  Devote,  then,  to  the  austere  friend 
of  your  youth,  one  of  these  bright  summer  evenings,  and  let  me 
boast  that  my  gloomy  mansion  has  been  graced  with  the  pres- 
ence of  the  admired  lone." 

Unconscious  of  the  pollutions  of  the  mansion,  of  the  danger 
that  awaited  her,  lone  readily  assented  to  the  proposal.  The 
next  evening  was  fixed  for  the  visit;  and  the  Egyptian,  with  a 
serene  countenance,  and  a  heart  beating  with  fierce  and  unholy 
joy,  departed.  Scarce  had  he  gone,  when  another  visitor  claimed 
Admission.    But  now  we  return  to  Glaucus. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  POOR  TORTOISE — NEW  CHANGES  FOR  NT1>IA. 

The  morning  sun  shone  over  the  small  and  odorous  garden  in- 
closed within  th«  peristyle  of  the  house  of  the  Athenian.    He 


es  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII, 

lay  reclined,  sad  and  listlessly,  on  the  smooth  grass  which  inte^ 
Bected  the  viridarium;  and  a  slight  canopy,  stretched  above, 
broke  the  fierce  rays  of  the  summer  sun. 

When  that  fairy  mansion  was  first  disinterred  from  the  earth, 
they  found  in  the  garden  the  shell  of  a  tortoise  that  had  been  its 
inmate.  That  animal,  so  strange  a  link  in  the  creation,  to 
which  Nature  seems  to  have  denied  all  tlie  pleasures  of  life, 
save  life's  passive  and  dream-like  i)erception,  had  been  the  guest 
of  the  place  for  years  before  Glaucua  purchased  it;  for  years, 
indeed,  which  went  beyond  the  memory  of  man,  and  to  which 
tradition  assigned  an  almost  incredible  date.  The  house  liad 
been  built'and  rebuilt — its  possessors  had  changed  and  fluctuated 
— generations  had  flourished  and  decayed — and  still  the  tortoise 
dragged  on  its  slow  and  unaympathizing  existence.  In  the 
earthquake,  which  sixteen  years  before  had  overthrown  many 
of  the  public  buildings  of  the  city,  and  scared  away  the  amazed 
inhabitants,  the  house  now  inhabited  by  Glaucus  had  been  terri- 
bly shattered.  Tlie  possessors  deserted  it  for  many  days;  on 
their  return  they  cleared  away  the  ruins  which  encumbered  the 
viridarium,  and  found  still  the  tortoise,  unharmed  and  uncon- 
scious of  the  surroimding  destruction.  It  seemed  to  bear  a 
charmed  life  in  its  languid  blood  and  imperceptible  motions;  yet 
it  was  not  so  inactive  as  it  seemed;  it  held  a  regular  and  monot- 
onous course;  inch  by  inch  it  traversed  the  little  orbit  of  its  do- 
main, taking  months  to  accomplish  the  whole  gyration.  It  was 
a  restless  voyager,  that  tortoisel — patiently,  and  with  pain,  did 
it  perform  its  self-appointed  journeys,  evincing  no  interest  in  the 
thmgs  around  it — a  philosopher  concentrated  in  itself.  There 
was  something  grand  in  its  solitary  selfishness! — the  sun  in 
which  it  basked — tlie  waters  poured  daily  over  it — the  air,  which 
it  insensibly  iidialed,  were  its  sole  and  unfailing  luxuries.  The 
mild  changes  ot  the  season,  in  that  lovely  clime,  affected  it  not. 
It  covered  itself  with  its  shell — as  the  saint  in  his  piety — as  the 
sage  in  his  wisdom — as  the  lover  in  his  hope. 

It  was  impervious  to  the  shocks  and  mutations  of  time— it  was 
an  emblem  of  time  itself;  slow,  regular,  perpetual;  unwitting  of 
the  passions  that  fret  themselves  around — of  the  wear  and  tear 
of  mortality.  The  ix)or  tortoise!  notliing  less  than  the  bursting 
of  volc^'iuoos,  the  convulsions  of  the  riven  world,  could  have 
quenched  its  sluggish  spark!  The  inexorable  Death,  that  spared 
not  ]>omp  or  beauty,  passed  unheedinglj^  l)y  a  thing  to  which 
death  could  l>ring  so  insignificant  a  chanjjo. 

For  this  animal,  the  mercurial  and  vivid  Greek  felt  all  the 
wonder  and  affection  of  contrast.  He  could  spend  hours  in  sur- 
veying it.s  creeping  progress,  in  moralizing  over  its  mechanism. 
He  despised  it  in  joy — he  envied  it  in  sorrow. 

Regarding  it  now  as  he  lay  along  the  sward,  its  dull  mass 
moving  while  it  seemed  motionless,  the  Athenian  murmured  to 
himself: 

"  The  eagle  dropped  a  8t<)ne  from  his  talons,  thinking  to  break 
thy  shell:  the  stone  crushed  the  head  of  a  poet.  This  is  the  alle- 
gorv  of  Fate  1  Dull  thing  !  Thou  hadst  a  father  and  a  mother  ; 
perhaps,  ages  ago,  thou  thyself  liadst  a  mate.      Did  thy  parents 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  88 

love,  or  didst  thou?  Did  thy  slow  blood  cu-culate  more  gladly 
wlien  thou  didst  creep  to  the  side  of  thy  wedded  one?  Wert 
thou  capable  of  affection?  Could  it  distress  thee  if  she  were 
away  from  thy  side  ?  Couldst  thou  feel  when  she  was  present? 
What  would  I  not  give  to  know  the  history  of  thy  mailed  breast 
— to  gaze  upon  tlie  mechanism  of  thy  faint  desires — to  mark 
what  hairbreadth  difference  separates  thy  sorrow  from  thy  joy  I 
Yet,  methinks,  thou  wouldst  know  if  Ion©  were  present !  Thou 
wouldst  feel  her  coming  like  a  happier  air — like  a  gladder  sun. 
I  envy  thee  now,  for  thou  knowest  not  that  she  is  absent;  and  I — 
would  I  could  be  like  thee — between  the  intervals  of  seeing  her  I 
What  doubt,  what  presentiment,  haunts  me  !  why  will  she  not 
admit  me  ?  Days  have  passed  since  I  heard  her  voice.  For  the 
first  time,  life  grows  flat  to  me.  I  am  as  one  who  is  left  alone  at 
a  banquet,  the  lights  dead,  and  the  flowers  faded.  Ah  !  lone, 
couldst  thou  dream  how  I  adore  thee  I" 

From  these  enamored  reveries,  Glaucus  was  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  Nydia.  She  came  with  her  light,  though  cautious 
step,  along  the  marble  tablinum.  She  passed  the  portico,  and 
paused  at  the  flowers  which  bordered  the  garden.  She  had  her 
water-vase  in  her  hand,  and  she  sprinkled  the  thirsty  plants, 
which  seemed  to  brighten  at  her  approach.  She  bent  to  inhale 
their  odor.  She  touched  them  timidly  and  caressingly.  She 
felt,  along  their  stems,  if  any  withered  leaf  or  creeping  insect 
marred  their  beauty.  And  as  she  hovered  from  flower  to  flower, 
with  her  earnest  and  youthful  countenance  and  graceful  motions, 
you  could  not  have  imagined  a  fitter  handmaid  for  the  goddes<§ 
of  the  garden. 

"  Nydia,  my  child  I"  said  Glaucus. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  she  paused  at  once — listening,  blush-- 
ing,  breathless;  with  her  lips  parted,  her  face  upturned  to  catch 
the  sound,  she  laid  down  tne  vase — she  hastened  to  him;  and 
wonderful  it  was  to'see  how  unerringly  she  threaded  her  dark  wa^ 
through  the  flowers,  and  came  by  the  shortest  path  to  the  side  oi 
her  new  lord. 

"  Nydia,"  said  Glaucus,  tenderly  stroking  back  her  long  and 
beautiful  hair,  "  it  is  now  three  days  since  thou  hast  been  rmdef 
the  protection  of  my  household  gods.  Have  they  smiled  on  thee? 
Art  thou  happy?' 

* '  Ah  !  so  happy !"  replied  the  slave. 

'*  And  now,"  continued  Glaucus,  "that  thou  hast  recovered 
somewhat  from  the  hateful  recollections  of  thy  former  state — • 
and  now  that  they  have  fitted  thee  [touching  her  broidered  tunic] 
with  garments  more  meet  for  thy  delicate  shape — and  now, 
sweet  child,  that  thou  hast  accustomed  thyself  to  a  happiness, 
which  may  the  gods  grant  thee  ever  I  I  am  about  to  pray  at  thy 
hands  a  boon." 

*'  Oh,  what  can  I  do  for  thee?"  said  Nydia,  clasping  her  hands. 

"  Listen,"  said  Glaucus,  "  and  young  as  thou  art,  thou  shalt  be 
my  confidant.     Hast  thou  ever  heard  the  name  of  lone?" 

The  blind  girl  gasped  for  breath,  and  turning  pale  as  one  of  the 
statues  which  shone  upon  them  from  the  peristyle,  she  answered 
with  an  effort,  after  a  moment's  pause: 


84  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEH. 

•*  YesI  I  have  heard  that  she  is  of  Neapolis,  and  beautiful.*' 

"  Beautiful  1  her  beauty  is  a  thing  to  dazzle  the  day!  Neapolis! 
nay,  she  is  Greek  by  origin;  Greece  only  could  furnish  forth  such 
■hapes,    Nydia,  I  love  herl" 

**  I  thought  so,"  replied  Nydia,  calmly. 

•'  I  love  her,  and  thou  shalt  tell  her  so.  I  am  about  to  send  thee 
to  her.  Happy  Nydia,  thou  wilt  be  in  her  chamter— thou  wilt 
drink  the  music  of  her  voice— thou  wilt  bask  in  the  sunny  air  of 
her  presence  1" 

*'  Whatl  whatl  wilt  thou  send  me  from  thee?" 

"  Tliou  wilt  go  to  lone,"  answered  Glaucus,  in  a  tone  that  said, 
"What  more  canst  thou  desire?" 

Nydia  burst  into  tears. 

Glaucus,  raising  himself,  drew  her  toward  him  with  the  sooth- 
ing caresses  of  a  brother. 

"  My  child,  my  Nydia,  thou  weepest  in  ignorance  of  the  happi- 
ness I  bestow  on  thee.  She  is  gentle  and  kind,  and  soft  as  tlie 
breeze  of  spring.  She  will  be  a  sister  to  thy  youth — she  will  ajv 
preciate  thy  winning  talents — she  will  love  thy  simple  graces  as 
none  other  could,  for  they  are  like  her  own.  Weepest  thou  still, 
fond  fool?  I  will  not  force  thee,  sweet.  AVilt  thou  not  do  for  me 
this  kindness?" 

"  Well,  if  I  can  serve  thee,  command.  See,  I  weep  no  longer — 
I  am  calm." 

"  That  is  my  own  Nydia,"  continued  Glaucus,  kissing  her  hand. 
'*  Go  then,  to  her;  if  thou  art  disappointed  in  her  kindness — if  I 
have  deceived  thee,  return  when  thou  wdlt.  I  do  not  give  thee  to 
another;  I  but  lend.  My  home  ever  be  thy  refuge,  sweet  one. 
Ahl  would  it  could  shelcer  all  the  homeless  and  distressed!  But 
if  my  heart  whispers  truly,  I  shall  claim  thee  again  soon,  my 
child.  My  home  and  Tone's  will  become  the  same,  and  thou  shaft 
dwell  with  both."' 

A  shiver  passed  through  the  slight  frame  of  the  bUnd  girl,  but 
she  wept  no  more — she  w^as  resigned. 

"  Go,  then,  my  Nydia,  to  Tone's  house — they  shall  show  thee  the 
way.  Take  her  the  fairest  flowers  thou  canst  pluck;  the  vase 
wliich  contains  them  I  will  give  thee;  thou  must  excuse  its  un- 
worthiness.  Thou  shalt  take,  too,  with  thee  the  lute  that  I  gave 
thee  yesterday,  and  from  which  thou  knowest  so  well  to  awaken 
the  charming  spirit.  Thou  shalt  give  her  also  this  letter,  in 
wliich,  after  a  hundred  efforts,  I  have  embodied  something  of  my 
thoughts.  Let  thy  car  catch  every  accent — every  modulation  of 
her  voice,  and  tell  me,  when  wo  meet  again,  if  its  music  should 
flatter  me  or  discourage.  It  is  now,  Nydia,  some  days  since  I 
have  been  admitted  to  lone;  there  is  something  mysterious  in 
this  exclusion.  I  am  distracted  with  doubts  and  fears;  learn — 
for  thou  art  ([uick,  and  thy  care  for  me  will  shaii>en  ten-fold  thy 
acuteness — learn  the  cause  of  this  unkindness;  speak  of  nae  as 
often  as  thou  canst;  let  ni}-  name  come  ever  to  thy  lips;  insinuate 
how  I  love,  rather  than  proclaim  it;  watch  if  she  sighs  whil« 
thou  speakest,  if  she  answer  thee;  or,  if  she  reproves,  in  what 
accents  she  reproves.     Be  my  friend  plead  for  me;  and  ohl  how 


TM-E  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEII.  ^5 

Tastly  wilt  thou  overijay  the  little  I  have  done  for  theel  Thou 
comprehendest,  Nydia;  thou  art  yet  a  child — have  I  said  more 
than  thou  canst  understand?" 

"No." 

"And  thou  wilt  serve  me?" 

"Yes." 

"  Come  to  me  when  thou  hast  gathered  the  flowers,  and  I  will 
give  thee  the  vase  I  speak  of;  seek  me  in  the  chamber  of  Leda. 
Pretty  one,  thou  dost  not  grieve  new?" 

"  Glaucus,  1  am  a  slave;  what  business  have  I  with  grief  or 
joy?" 

"  Sayest  thou  so?  No,  Nydia,  be  free.  I  give  thee  freedom; 
enjoy  it  as  thou  wilt,  and  pardon  me  that  I  reckoned  on  thy  de- 
sire to  serve  me." 

"  You  are  offended.  Oh!  I  would  not,  for  that  which  no  freed- 
dom  can  give,  offend  you,  Glaucus.  My  guardian,  my  savior,  my 
protector,  forgive  the  poor  bhnd  girll  She  does  not  grieve  even 
on  leaving  thee  if  she  can  contribute  to  thy  happiness." 

"  May  the  gods  bless  this  grateful  heart!"  said  Glaucus,  greatly 
moved;  and  unconscious  of  the  fires  he  excited,  he  repeatedly 
kissed  her  forehead. 

"  Thou  forgivest  me,"  said  she,  "  and  thou  wilt  talk  no  more 
of  freedom;  my  happiness  is  to  be  thy  slave;  thou  hast  promised 
that  thou  wilt  not  give  me  to  another " 

"  I  have  promised." 

"  And  now,  then,  I  will  gather  the  flowers." 

Silently,  Nydia  took  from  the  hand  of  Glaucus  the  costly  and 
jeweled  vase,  in  which  the  flowers  vied  with  each  other  in  hue 
and  fragrance;  tearlessly  she  received  his  parting  admonition. 
She  paused  for  a  moment  when  his  voice  ceased — she  did  not 
trust  herself  to  reply — she  sought  his  hand — she  raised  it  to  her 
hps,  dropped  her  veil  over  her  face,  and  passed  at  once  from  his 
presence.  She  paused  again  as  she  reached  the  threshold;  she 
stretched  her  bands  toward  it,  and  murmured: 

"Three  happy  days— days  of  unspeakable  delight,  have  I 
known  since  I  passed  thee — blessed  threshold!  may  peace  ever 
dwell  with  thee  when  I  am  gone!  And  now,  my  heart  tears  it- 
self from  thee,  and  the  only  sound  it  utters  bids  me — die!" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  HAPPY  BEAUTY  AND  THE  BLIND    SLAVE. 

A  SLAVE  entered  the  chamber  of  lone.  A  messenger  from 
Glaucus  desired  to  be  admitted. 

loue  hesitated  an  instant. 

"She  is  blind,  that  messenger,"  said  the  slave;  "she  will  do 
her  commission  to  none  but  thee." 

Base  is  that  heart  which  does  not  respect  afllictionl  The  mo- 
ment she  heard  the  messenger  was  bhnd  lone  felt  the  impossi- 
bihty  of  returning  a  chiUing  reply.  Glacus  had  chosen  a  herald 
that  was  indeed  sacred — a  herald  that  could  not  be  denied. 

"  What  can  he  want  with  me?  what  message  can  he  send?" 
and  the  heart  of  lone  beat  quick.    The  curtain  across  the  door 


8«  TBE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

was  withdrawn;  a  soft  and  eclioless  step  fell  upon  the  marbld; 
and  Nydia,  led  by  one  of  the  attendants,  entered  with  her  pre- 
cious gift. 

She  stood  still  a  moment,  as  if  listening  for  some  sound  that 
might  direct  her. 

"  Will  the  noble  lone,"  said  she,  in  a  soft  and  low  voice,  "deign 
to  speak,  that  I  may  know  whither  to  steer  these  benighted  steps, 
and  that  I  may  lay  my  offerings  at  her  feet?" 

"  Fair  child,"  said  lone,  touched  and  soothingly,  "give  not 
thyself  the  pain  to  cross  these  slippery  floors,  my  attendant  will 
bring  to  me  what  thou  hast  to  present;"  and  she  motioned  to  the 
handmaid  to  take  the  vase. 

"  I  may  give  these  flowers  to  none  but  thee,"  answered  Nydia; 
and,  guided  by  her  ear,  she  walked  slowly  to  the  place  where 
lone  sat,  and,  kneeling  when  she  came  before  her,  proffered  the 
vase. 

lone  took  it  from  her  hand,  and  placed  it  on  the  table  at  her 
side.  She  then  raised  her  gently,  and  would  have  seated  her  on 
the  couch,  but  the  girl  modestly  resisted. 

"  I  have  not  yet  discharged  my  office,"  said  she,  and  she  drew 
the  letter  of  Glaucus  from  her  vest.     "This  will  perhaps,  ,ex- 

{•lain  why  he  who  sent  me  chose  so  unworthy  a  messenger  to 
one." 

The  Neapolitan  took  the  letter  with  a  hand,  the  trembling  of 
which  Nydia  at  once  felt  and  sighed  to  feel.  With  folded  arms 
and  downcast  looks  she  stood  before  the  proud  and  stately  form 
of  lone— no  less  proud,  perhaps,  in  her  attitude  of  submission, 
lone  waved  her  hand,  and  the  attendants  withdrew;  she  gazed 
again  upon  the  form  of  the  young  slave  in  surprise  and  beauti- 
ful compassion:  then  retiring  a  little  from  her,  she  opened  and 
read  the  following  letter: 

"  Glaucus  to  lone  sends  more  than  he  dares  to  utter.  Is  lone 
ill?  thy  slaves  tell  me  '  No,'  and  that  assurance  comforts  me. 
Has  Glaucus  offended  lone  ? — ah  !  that  question  I  may  not  ask 
from  them.  For  five  days  I  have  been  banished  from  thy  pres- 
ence. Has  the  sun  shone  ? — I  know  it  not.  Has  the  sky  smiled  ? 
— it  has  had  no  smile  for  me.  My  sun  and  my  sky  are  lone.  Do 
I  offend  thee?  Am  I  too  bold?  Do  I  say  that  on  the  tablet 
wliich  my  tongue  has  hesitated  to  breathe?  Alas  !  it  is  in  thine 
absence  that  I  feel  most  the  spells  by  which  thou  hast  subdued 
me.  And  absence,  that  deprives  me  of  joy,  brings  me  courage. 
Thou  wilt  not  see  me;  thou  hast  banished  also  the  common  flat- 
terers that  flock  around  thee.  Canst  thou  confound  me  with 
them  ?  It  is  not  possible  !  Thou  knowest  too  well  that  I  am  not 
of  them — that  their  clay  is  not  mine.  For  even  wore  I  of  the 
humblest  mold,  the  fragrance  of  tlie  rose  has  penetrated  me,  and 
the  spirit  of  thy  nature  has  passed  within  me,  to  embalm,  to 
sanctify,  to  inspire.  Have  thev  slandered  me  to  thee,  lone  ? 
Thou  wilt  not  believe  (hem.  bid  the  Delphic  oracle  itself  tell 
me  thou  wert  unworthy,  I  would  not  believe  it;  and  am  I  less 
incredulous  than  thou  ?  I  think  of  the  last  time  we  met— of  the 
song  which  I  sung  to  thee— of  the  look  thou  gavest  me  in  return. 


TEE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEII.  Si 

Disguise  it  as  thou  wilt,  lone,  there  is  something  kindred  be- 
tween us,  and  our  eyes  acknowledge  it,  though  our  lips  are  si 
lent.  Deign  to  see  me,  to  listen  to  me,  and  after  that  exclude 
me  if  thou  wilt.  I  meant  not  so  soon  to  say  I  loved.  But  those 
words  rush  to  my  heart— they  will  have  way.  Accept,  then,  my 
homage  and  my  vows.  We  first  met  at  the  shrine  of  Pallas; 
shall  we  not  meet  before  a  softer  and  a  more  ancient  altar  ? 

"  Beautiful  1  adored  lone  !  If  my  hot  youth  and  my  Athenian 
blood  have  misguided  and  allured  me,  they  have  but  taught  my 
wanderings  to  appreciate  the  rest — the  haven  they  have  attained. 
I  hang  up  my  dripping  robes  on  the  Sea-god's  shrine.  I  have 
escaped  shipwreck.  I  have  found  thee.  lone,  deign  to  see  me; 
thou  art  gentle  to  strangers,  wilt  thou  be  less  merciful  to  those 
of  thine  own  land?  I  await  thy  reply.  Accept  the  flowers 
which  I  send — their  sweet  breath  has  a  language  more  eloquent 
than  words.  They  take  from  the  sun  the  odors  they  return — 
they  are  the  emblem  of  the  love  that  receives  and  repays  ten- 
fold— the  emblem  of  the  heart  that  drank  the  rays,  and  owes  to 
thee  the  germ  of  the  treasures  that  it  proffers  to  thy  smile.  I 
send  these  by  one  whom  thou  wilt  receive  for  her  own  sake,  if 
not  for  mine.  She,  like  us,  is  a  stranger;  her  father's  ashes  lie 
under  brighter  skies:  but  less  happy  than  we.  she  is  blind  and  a 
slave.  Poor  Nvdia  !  I  seek  as  much  as  possible  to  repair  to  her 
the  cruelties  or  Nature  and  of  Fate,  in  asking  permission  to 
place  her  with  thee.  She  is  gentle,  quick,  and  docile.  She  is 
skilled  in  music  and  the  song;  and  she  is  a  very  Chloris  to  the 
flowers.  She  thinks,  lone,  that  thou  wilt  love  lier;  if  thou  dost 
not,  send  her  back  to  me. 

"  One  word  more — let  me  be  bold,  lone.  Why  thinkest  thou  so 
highly  of  yon  dark  Egyptian  !  he  hath  not  about  him  the  air  of 
honest  men.  We  GreeKs  learn  mankind  from  our  cradle;  we 
are  not  the  less  profound,  in  that  we  affect  no  somber  mien;  our 
lips  smile,  but  our  eyes  are  grave — they  observe — they  note — ■ 
they  study.  Arbaces  is  not  one  to  be  credulously  trusted:  can 
it  be  that  he  hath  wronged  me  to  thee?  I  think  it,  for  I  left  him 
with  thee;  thou  sa west  how  my  presence  stung  him;  since  then 
thou  hast  not  admitted  me.  Believe  nothing  that  he  can  say  to 
my  disfavor;  if  thou  dost,  tell  me  so  at  once:  for  this  lone  owes 
to  Glaucus.  Farewell  I  this  letter  touches  thy  hand;  these  char- 
acters meet  thine  eyes — shall  they  be  more  blessed  than  he  who 
is  their  author?    Once  more,  farewell  ?" 

It  seemed  to  lone,  as  she  read  this  letter,  as  if  a  mist  had  fallen 
from  her  eyes.  What  had  been  the  supposed  offense  of  Glaucus 
— that  he  had  not  really  loved!  And  now,  plainly,  and  in  no 
dubious  terms,  he  confessed  that  love.  From  that  moment  his 
power  was  fully  restored.  At  every  tender  word  in  that  letter, 
BO  full  of  romantic  and  trustful  passion,  her  heart  smote  her. 
And  had  she  doubted  his  faith,  and  had  she  believed  another?  and 
had  she  not,  at  least,  allowed  to  him  the  culprit's  right  to  know 
his  crime,  to  plead  in  his  defense?  The  tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks,  she  kissed  the  letter — she  placed  it  in  her  bcJ6(*m;  and, 
turning  to  Nydia,  who  stood  in  the  same  place  and  ia  ^h*  8am« 
posture; 


88  THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEU, 

**  "Wilt  thou  sit,  my  child,"  said  she,  "  while  I  write  an  answei 
to  this  letter?" 

"  You  will  answer  it,  then!"  said  Nydia,  coldly.  "Well,  the 
slave  that  accompanied  me  will  take  back  your  answer." 

"  For  vou,"  said  lone,  "  stay  with  me— trust  me,  your  service 
shall  be  light." 

Nydia  bowed  her  head. 

**  What  is  your  name,  fair  girl?" 

'♦  They  call  me  Nydia." 

"  Your  country?" 

♦♦  The  land  of  Olympus— Thessaly.** 

"Thou  shalt  be  to  me  a  friend,"  said  lone,  caressingly,  "as 
thou  art  already  half  a  countrywoman.  Meanwhile,  I  beseech 
thee,  stand  not  on  these  cold  and  glassy  marbles.  There  I  now 
that  thou  art  seated,  I  can  leave  thee  for  an  instant. 

"lone  to  Glaucus  greeting — Come  to  me,  Glaucus,  [wrote 
lone]  come  to  me  to-morrow.  I  may  have  been  unjust  to  thee, 
but  1  will  tell  thee,  at  least,  the  fault  that  has  been  imputed  to 
thy  charge.  Fear  not,  henceforth,  the  Egyptian — fear  none. 
Thou  say  est  thou  hast  expressed  too  much — alas!  in  these  hasty 
words  I  have  already  done  so.    Farewell!" 

As  lone  reappeared  with  the  letter,  which  she  did  not  dare  to 
read  after  she  had  written  (Ah!  common  rashness,  common 
timidity  of  love!>— Nydia  started  from  her  seat. 

"You  have  written  to  Glaucus?" 

"I  have." 

"  And  will  he  thank  the  messenger  who  gives  him  the  letter?" 

lone  forgot  that  her  companion  was  blind;  she  blushed  from 
the  brow  to  the  neck,  and  remained  silent. 

"I  mean  this,"  added  Nydia,  in  a  calmer  tone;  "the  lightest 
word  of  coldness  from  thee  will  sadden  him — the  hghtest  kind- 
ness will  rejoice.  If  it  be  the  first,  let  the  slave  take  back  thine 
answer;  if  it  be  the  last,  let  me — I  will  return  this  evening." 

"And  why,  Nydia,"  asked  lone,  evasively,  "wouldstthou  be 
the  bearer  of  my  letter?" 

"It  is  so,  then,"  said  Nydia.  "How  could  it  be  otherwise; 
who  could  be  unkind  to  Glaucus?" 

"  My  child,"  said  lone,  a  little  more  reservedly  than  before, 
"thou  speakest  warmly — Glaucus,  then,  is  amiable  in  thine 
eyes?" 

"  Noble  lone!  Glaucus  has  been  that  to  me  which  neither 
fortune  nor  gods  have  been — a  frieiidr 

The  sadness  mingled  with  dignity  with  which  Nydia  uttered 
these  simple  words,  affected  the  beautiful  lone;  she  bent  down 
and  kissed  her.  "Thou  art  grateful,  and  deservedly  so;  why 
should  I  blush  to  say  that  Glaucus  is  worthy  of  thy  gratitude? 
Go,  my  Nydia — take  to  him  thyself  this  letter,  but  return  again. 
If  I  am  from  home  when  thou  returnest — as  this  evening,  per- 
haps. I  shall  be — thy  chamber  shall  be  prepared  next  my  own. 
Nydia,  I  have  no  sister;  wilt  thou  be  one  to  me?" 

The  Thessalian  kissed  the  hand  of  lone,  and  then  said  with 
some  embarrassment: 

♦*  Ose  favor,  fair  lone — may  I  dare  to  ask  it?" 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII,  8^ 

"  Thou  canst  not  ask  what  I  will  not  grant,"  replied  the  Nea- 
politan. 

"  They  tell  me,"  said  Nydia,  '*  that  thou  art  beautiful  beyond 
the  loveliness  of  earth.  Alas!  I  cannot  see  that  which  gladdeng 
the  world.  Wilt  thou  suffer  me,  then,  to  pass  my  hand  over  thy 
face? — that  is  my  sole  criterion  of  beauty,  and  I  usually  guess 
aright." 

She  did  not  wait  for  the  answer  of  lone,  but,  as  she  spoke, 
gently  and  slowly  passed  her  hand  over  the  bending  and  half- 
averted  features  oi  the  Greek — features  which  but  one  image  in 
the  world  can  yet  depicture  and  recall — that  image  is  the  mutil- 
ated, but  all-wondrous,  statue  in  her  native  city — her  own  Ne- 
apolis;  that  Parian  face,  before  which  all  the  beauty  of  the  Flor- 
entine Venus  is  poor  and  earthly — that  aspect  so  full  of  harmony 
— of  youth — of  genius — of  the  soul — which  modern  critics  have 
supposed  the  representation  of  Psyche.* 

Her  touch  lingered  over  the  braided  hair  and  polished  brow — 
over  the  downy  and  damask  cheek — over  the  dimpled  lip — the 
swan-like  and  whitest  neck.  "  I  know,  now,  that  thou  art  beau- 
tiful," she  said;  "  aad  I  can  picture  thee  to  my  darkness  hence- 
forth, and  forever." 

When  Nydia  left  her,  lone  sank  into  a  deep  but  delicious 
revery.  Glaucus  then  loved  her;  he  owned  it — yes,  he 
loved  her.  She  drew  forth  again  that  dear  confession;  she 
paused  over  every  word,  she  kissed  every  line;  she  did  not 
ask  why  he  had  been  maligned,  she  only  felt  assui'ed  that 
he  had  been  so.  She  wondered  how  she  had  ever  believed  a 
syllable  against  him;  she  wondered  how  the  Egyptian  had  been 
enabled  to  exercise  a  power  against  Glaucus;  she  felt  a  chill  creep 
over  her  as  she  again  turned  to  his  warning  against  Arbaces,  and 
her  secret  fear  of  that  gloomy  being  darkened  into  awe.  She 
was  awakened  from  these  thoughts  by  her  maidens,  who  came 
to  announce  to  her  that  the  hour  appointed  to  visit  Arbaces  was 
arrived;  she  started,  she  had  forgotten  the  promise.  Eer  first 
impression  was  to  renounce  it;  her  second,  was  to  laugh  at  her 
own  fears  of  her  eldest  surviving  friend.  She  hastened  to  add 
the  usual  ornaments  to  her  dress,  and  doubtful  whether  she 
should  yet  question  the  Egyptian  more  closely  with  respect  to 
his  accusation  of  Glaucus,  or  whether  she  should  wait  till,  with- 
out citing  the  authority,  she  should  insinuate  to  Glaucus  the  ac- 
cusation itself,  she  took  her  way  to  the  gloomy  mansion  of  Ar- 


CHAPTER  VII. 

lONE  ENTRAPPED.— THE  MOUSE  TRIES  TO  GNAW  THE  NET. 

*'  O  DEAREST  Nydia!"  exclaimed  Glaucus,  as  he  read  the  letter 
of  lone,  "  whitest-robed  messenger  that  ever  passed  between 
earth  and  heaven — how,  how  shall  I  thank  thee?" 

*  The  wonderful  remains  of  the  statue  so  called  in  the  Musee  Borbonio. 
The  face,  for  sentiment  and  for  featui-e,  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all  wbich 
ancient  sculpture  has  bequeathed  to  U8. 


W  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

"I  am  rewarded,"  said  tho  poor  Tliessalian. 

"To-morrow — to-morrow!  bow  shall  I  while  the  hours  till 
then?" 

The  enamored  Greek  would  not  let  Nydia  escape  him,  though 
she  sought  several  times  to  leave  the  chamber;  he  made  her 
recite  to  him  over  and  over  again  every  syllable  of  the  brief  con- 
versation that  had  taken  place  between  her  and  lone;  a  thousaad 
times,  forgetting  her  misfortune,  he  questioned  her  of  the  looks, 
of  the  countenance  of  his  beloved;  and  tlien  quickly  again  ex- 
cusing his  fault,  he  bade  her  recommence  the  whole  recital  which 
he  had  thus  inteniipted.  The  hours  Ihus  painful  to  Nydia 
passed  rapidly  and  delightfully  to  him,  and  the  twilight  had 
already  darkened  ere  he  once  more  dismissed  her  to  lone  with 
a  fresh  letter  and  with  new  flowers.  Scarcely  had  she  gone,  than 
Clodius  and  several  of  his  gay  companions  broke  in  upon  him; 
they  rallied  him  on  his  seclusion  during  the  whole  day,  and  his 
absence  from  his  customaiy  haunts;  they  invited  him  to  accom- 
pany them  to  the  various  resorts  in  that  lively  city,  which  night 
and  day  proffered  diversity  to  pleasure.  Tlien,  as  now,  in  the 
south  (for  no  land,  perhaps,  losing  more  of  greatness  has  retained 
more  of  custom),  it  was  the  delight  of  the  Itahans  to  assemble 
at  the  evening;  and,  under  the  porticos  of  temples  or  the  shade 
of  the  groves  that  interspersed  the  streets,  listening  to  music  or 
the  recitals  of  some  inventive  tale-teller,  they  hailed  the  rising 
moon  with  libations  of  wine  and  the  melodies  of  song.  Glaucus 
was  too  happy  to  be  unsocial;  he  longed  to  cast  off  the  exuber- 
ance of  joy  that  oppressed  him.  He  willingly  accepted  the  pro- 
posal of  his  comjrades,  and  laughingly  they  sallied  out  together 
down  the  populous  and  glittering  streets. 

In  the  mean  time  Nydia  once  more  gained  the  house  of  lone, 
who  had  long  left  it;  she  inquu*ed  indifferently  whither  lone  had 
gone. 

The  answer  arrested  and  appalled  her. 

"  To  the  house  of  Arbaces— of  the  Egyptian?    Impossible!'* 

**  It  is  true,  my  little  one,"  said  the  slave,  who  had  replied  to 
her  question.     "She  has  known  the  Egyptian  long." 

"Long!  ye  gods,  yet  Glaucus  loves  her!"  murmured  Nydia  to 
herself. 

"And  has,"  asked  she  aloud— "has  she  often  %Tsited  him  be- 
fore?" 

"Never  till  now,"  answered  the  slave.  " If  all  the  rumored 
Bcandal  of  Pompeii  be  true,  it  would  be  better,  perhaps,  if  she 
had  not  ventured  there  at  present.  But  she,  poor  mistress  mine, 
hears  nothing  of  that  which  reaches  us;  the  talk  of  the  veetibu- 
lum  reaches  not  to  the  peristyle." 

"  Never  till  now!"  repeated  Nydia.     "  Art  thou  sure?" 

"Sure,  pretty  one:  but  what  is  that  to  thee  or  to  us?" 

Nj'dia  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then,  putting  down  the  flowers 
>vith  which  she  had  been  charged,  she  called  to  the  slave  who 
had  accompanied  her,  and  left  tlie  liouse  without  saying  another 
word. 

Not  till  she  had  got  half-way  back  to  the  house  of  Glaucus  did 
ehe  break  silence,  and  even  tlu*n  she  only  murmured  inly: 

"She  does  not  dream — she  can  not — of  the  danger  into  which 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMP  EI t  91 

she  has  plunged.  Fool  that  I  am — shall  I  save  her? — yea,  for  I 
love  Glaucus  better  than  myself." 

When  she  arrived  at  the  house  of  the  Athenian,  she  learned 
that  he  had  gone  out  with  a  party  of  his  friends,  and  none  kne^ 
whither.     He  probably  would  not  be  home  before  midnight. 

The  Thessalian  groaned;  she  sank  upon  a  seat  in  the  hall,  and 
covered  her  face  with  feer  hands  as  if  to  collect  her  thoughts. 
'*  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost,"  thought  she,  starting  up.  She 
turned  to  the  slave  who  accompanied  her. 

"Knowest  thou,"  said  she,  "  if  lone  has  any  intimate  friend  at 
Pompeii?" 

"Why,  by  Jupiter!"  ans^^ered  the  slave,  "art  thou  silly 
enough  to  ask  the  question?  jj^very  one  in  Pompeii  knows  that 
lone  has  a  brother  who,  young  and  rich,  has  been — under  the 
rose  I  speak — so  foolish  as  to  become  a  priest  of  Isis." 

"  A  priest  of  Isis  I    O  Gods!  liis  name?" 

"  Apsecides." 

"I  know  it  all,"  muttered  Nydia;  "  brother  and  sister,  then, 
are  to  be  both  victims!    Apaecides!  yes,   that  was  the  name  I 

heard  in Ha!  he  well,  then,  knows  the  peril  that  surrounds 

his  sister;  I  will  go  to  him," 

She  sprang  up  at  that  thought,  and  taking  the  staff  which  al- 
ways guided  her  steps,  she  hastened  to  the  shrine  of  Isis.  Till 
she  had  been  under  the  guardianship  of  the  kindly  Greek,  that 
staff  had  sufficed  to  conduct  the  poor  blind  girl  from  corner  to 
corner  of  Pompeii.  Every  street,  every  turning  in  the  more  fre- 
quented parts,  was  familiar  to  her;  and  as  the  inhabitants  enter- 
tained tender  and  half -superstitious  veneration  for  those  sub- 
ject to  her  infirmity,  the  passengers  had  always  given  way  to 
her  timid  steps.  Poor  girl,  she  little  dreamed  that  she  should, 
ere  very  many  days  were  passed,  find  her  blindness  her  protec- 
tion, and  a  guide  far  safer  than  the  keenest  eyes! 

But  since  she  had  been  under  the  roof  of  Glaucus,  he  had  or- 
dered a  slave  to  accompany  her  always;  and  the  poor  devil  thus 
appointed,  who  was  somewhat  of  the  fattest,  and  who,  after 
having  twice  performed  the  journey  to  lone's  house,  now  saw 
himself  condemned  to  a  third  exi)edition  (whither  the  gods  only 
knew),  hastened  after  her,  deploring  his  fate,  and  solemnly  as- 
suring Cast«r  and  Pollux  that  he  believed  the  blind  girl  had  th© 
talaria  of  Mercury  as  well  as  the  infirmity  of  Cupid. 

Nydia,  however,  required  but  little  of  his  assistance  to  find  her 
way  to  the  popular  Temple  of  Isis;  the  space  before  it  w^as  now 
deserted,  and  she  won  without  obstacle  to  the  sacred  rails. 

"  There  is  no  one  here,"  said  the  fat  slave.  "  What  dost  thou 
want  or  whom?  Kjiowest  thou  not  that  the  jH'iests  do  not  live 
in  the  temple?" 

"  Call  out,"  said  she,  impatiently;  "  night  and  day  there  is  al- 
ways one  flamen,  at  least,  watching  in  the  shrines  of^Isis." 

The  slave  called — no  one  appeared. 

**  Seest  thou  no  one?" 

"No  one." 

"  Thou  mistakest;  I  hear  a  sigh;  look  again." 

The  slave,  wondering  and  grumbling,  cast  round  his  heavy 


&^  THE  LAST  D.  \  YS  OF  POMPEII. 

eyes,  and  before  one  of  the  altars,  whose  remains  still  crowd  the 
narrow  space,  he  beheld  a  form  bending  as  in  meditation. 

*'  I  see  a  figure,"  said  he;  *'  and  by  the  white  garments,  it  is  a 
priest.  '* 

'*  O  flamen  of  Isisl'*  cried  Nydia;  **  servant  of  the  Most  Ancient, 
hear  me  r* 

''  Who  calls?"  said  a  low  and  melancholy  voice. 

"  One  who  has  no  common  tidings  to  impart  to  a  member  of 
TOur  b«dy;  I  come  to  declare  and  not  to  ask  oracles." 

"  With  whom  wouldst  thou  confer?  This  is  no  hour  for  thy 
conference;  depart,  disturb  me  not;  the  night  is  sacred  to  the 
gods,  the  day  to  men." 

**  Methinks  I  know  thy  voice  I  thou  art  he  whom  I  seek;  yet 
I  have  heard  thee  speak  but  once  before.  Art  thou  not  the  priest 
Apaecides?'' 

"  I  am  that  man,"  replied  the  priest,  emerging  from  the  altar, 
and  approaching  the  rail. 

''  Thou  art!  the  gods  be  praised!"  Waving  her  hand  to  the 
slave,  she  bade  him  withdraw  to  a  distance;  and  he,  who  natural- 
ly imagined  some  superstition  connected,  perhaps,  with  the  safety 
of  lone,  could  alone  lead  her  to  the  temple,  obeyed,  and  seated 
himself  on  the  ground  at  a  little  distance.  "Hush!"  said  she,* 
speaking  quick  and  low;  **  art  thou  indeed  Apajcides?" 

*'  If  thou  knowest  me,  canst  thou  not  recall  my  features?'' 

*'  I  am  bUnd,"  answered  Nydia;  "my  eyes  are  in  my  ear,  and 
that  recognizes  thee;  yet  swear  that  thou  art  he." 

"By  the  gods  I  swear  it,  by  my  right  hand,  and  by  the 
moon!" 

"Hush,  speak  low — bend  near — give  me  thy  hand;  knowest 
thou  Arbaces?  Hast  thou  laid  flowers  at  the  feet  of  the  dead? 
Ah!  thy  hand  is  cold— hark  yet!— hast  thou  taken  the  awful 
vow?" 

"  Who  art  thou,  whence  comest  thou,  pale  maiden?"  said 
Apaecides,  fearfully;  "I  know  thee  not,  thine  is  not  the  breast 
on  which  this  head  hath  lain;  I  have  never  seen  thee  before." 

"  But  thou  hast  heard  my  voice;  no  matter,  these  recollections 
it  should  shame  us  both  to  recall.     Listen,  thou  hast  a  sister." 

"  Speak!  speak!  wliat  of  her?" 

"  Thou  knowest  the  banquets  of  the  dead,  stranger — it  pleases 
thee,  perhaps,  to  share  them— would  it  please  thee  to  liave  thy 
sister  a  partaker?  Would  it  please  thee  that  Arbaces  was  her 
host?" 

"  O  gods,  he  dare  not!  Girl,  if  thou  mockest  me,  tremble!  I 
will  tear  thee  limb  from  limb!" 

"I  speak  the  truth;  and  while  I  speak,  lone  is  in  the  halls  of 
Arbaces — for  the  first  time  his  j^uest.  Thou  knowept  if  there  bo 
peril  in  that  first  time!    Farewell!    I  have  fulfilled  my  charge." 

"Stay!  stay!"  cried  the  priest,  passing  his  wan  hand  over  his 
brow.  "If  t'his  be  true,  what — what  can  be  done  to  save  her? 
They  may  not  admit  me.  I  know  not  all  the  mazes  of  that  in- 
tricate mansion.     O  Nemesis!  justly  am  I  punislied!" 

"  I  will  dismiss  yon  slave,  be  thou  my  guide  and  comrade;  I 
will  lead  thee  to  tne  private  door  of  the  house;  I  will  whisper  to 


THE  LAST  DA  78  OF  POMPEIL  92 

thee  the  word  which  admits.  Take  some  weapon;  it  may  be 
needful!" 

"Wait  an  instant,"  said  Apascides,  retiring  into  one  of  the 
cells  that  flank  the  temple,  and  reappearing  in  a  few  moments 
wrapped  in  a  large  cloak,  which  was  then  much  worn  by  all 
classes,  and  which  concealed  his  sacred  dress.  *'  Now,"  he  said, 
grindiug  his  teeth,  *'  if  Arbaces  hath  dared  to— but  he  dare  not  I 
he  dare  not!  Why  should  I  suspect  him?  Is  he  so  base  a  villain? 
I  will  not  think  it — yet,  sophist!  dark  bewilderer  that  he  is!  O 
gods,  protect! — hush!  are  there  gods?  Yes,  there  is  one  goddess, 
at  least,  whose  voice  I  can  command;  and  that  is — Vengeance!" 

Muttering  these  disconnected  thoughts,  Apaecides,  foUowed  by 
his  silent  and  sightless  companion,  hastened  thi'ough  the  most 
solitary  path  to  the  house  of  the  Egyptian. 

The  slave,  abruptly  dismissed  by  Nydia,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
muttered  an  adjuration,  and,  nothing  loth,  rolled  off  to  his 
cubiculum. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE   SOLITUDE  AND  SOLILOQTJY  OF  THE  EGYPTIAN. — HIS  CHARAO- 
TER    ANALYZED. 

We  must  go  back  a  few  hours  in  the  progress  of  our  story.  At 
the  first  gray  dawn  of  tlie  day  which  Glaucus  had  ah-eady 
marked  with  white,  the  Egyptian  was  seated,  sleepless  and  alone, 
on  the  summit  of  the  lofty  and  pyramidal  tower  which  flanked 
his  house.  A  tall  parapet  around  it  served  as  a  wall,  and  con- 
spired with  the  bight  of  the  edifice  and  the  gloomy  trees  that 
girded  the  mansion,  to  defy  the  prying  eyes  of  curiosity  or  obser- 
vation. A  table,  on  which  lay  a  scroll,  filled  with  mystic  figures, 
was  before  him.  On  high,  the  stars  waxed  dim  and  faint,  and 
the  shades  of  night  melted  from  the  sterile  mountain-tops;  only 
above  Vesuvius,  there  rested  a  deep  and  massy  cloud,  which  for 
several  days  past  had  gathered  darker  and  more  solid  over  its 
summit.  The  struggle  of  night  and  day  was  more  visible  over 
the  broad  ocean,  which  stretched  calm,  Uke  a  gigantic  lake, 
bounded  by  the  circhng  shores  that,  covered  with  vines  and  foli- 
age, and  gleaming  here  and  there  with  the  white  walls  of  sleep- 
ing cities,  sloped  to  the  scarce  rippling  waves. 

It  was  an  hour  above  all  otliers  most  sacred  to  the  daring 
science  of  the  Egyptian — the  science  which  would  read  our 
changeful  destinies  in  the  stars. 

He  had  filled  his  scroll,  he  had  noted  the  moment  and  the  sign; 
and  leaning  upon  his  hand,  he  had  surrendered  himself  to  the 
thoughts  this  calculation  had  excited. 

''Again  do  the  stars  forewarn  me!  Some  danger,  then,  as- 
suredly awaits  me!"  said  he,  slowly;  "some  danger,  violent  stud 
sudden  in  its  nature.  The  stars  wear  for  me  the  same  mocking 
menace  which,  if  our  cln-onicles  do  not  err,  they  once  wore  for 
Pyrrhus — ^for  him  doomed  to  strive  for  all  tilings,  to  enjoy  none 
— ^aii  attacking,  nothing  gaining — battles  without  fruit,  laurels 
without  success;  at  last  made  craven  by  his  own  superstitions, 
and  slain  like  a  dog  by  a  tile  from  the  hand  of  an  old  vromanl 


U  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

Verily,  the  stars  flatter  when  they  give  me  a  type  in  this  fool  of 
xvar — when  they  promise  to  the  ardor  of  my  wisdom  the  same 
results  as  to  the  madness  of  liis  ambition — perpetual  exercise — no 
certain  goal — the  Sisyphus  task,  the  mountain  and  the  stone,  a 
gloomy  image! — it  reminds  me  that  I  am  threatened  -with  some- 
what of  the  same  death  as  the  Epirote.  Let  me  look  again.  *  Be- 
ware,' say  the  shining  prophets,  '  how  thou  passest  under  ancient 
roofs,  or  besieged  walls  or  overhanging  cliffs — a  stone,  hurled 
from  above,  is  charged  by  the  curses  of  destiny  against  thee  I' 
And,  at  no  distant  date  from  this,  comes  the  peril;  but  I  cannot, 
of  a  certainty,  read  the  day  and  hour.  Well!  if  my  glass  runs 
low,  the  sands  shall  sparkle  to  the  last.  Yet,  if  I  escape  this 
peril — ay,  if  I  escape — ^bright  and  clear  as  the  moonlight  track 
along  the  waters  glows  the  rest  of  ray  existence.  I  see  honors, 
happiness,  success,  shining  upon  every  billow  of  the  dark  gulf  be- 
neath which  I  must  sink  at  last.  What,  then,  with  such  destinies 
beyond  the  peril  shall  I  succumb  to  the  peril?  My  soul  whispers 
hope,  it  sweeps  exultingly  beyond  the  boding  hour,  it  revels  in 
the  future,  its  own  courage  is  its  fittest  omen.  If  I  were  to  per- 
ish suddenly  and  so  soon,  the  shadow  of  death  would  darken 
over  me,  and  I  should  feel  the  icy  presentiment  of  my  doom. 
My  soul  would  express,  in  sadness  and  in  gloom,  its  forecast  of 
the  dreary  Orcus.    But  it  smiles — it  assures  me  of  deliverance." 

As  he  thus  concluded  his  sohloquy,  the  Egyptian  involuntarily 
rose.  He  paced  rapidly  the  narrow  space  of  that  star-roofed 
floor,  and,  pausing  at  the  parapet,  looked  again  upon  the  gray 
and  melancholy  heavens.  The  chills  of  the  faint  dawn  came 
refreshingly  upon  his  brow,  and  gradually  his  mind  resumed  its 
natural  and  collected  calm.  He  withdrew  his  gaze  from  the 
stars,  as,  one  after  another,  they  receded  into  the  depths  of 
heaven;  and  his  eyes  fell  over  the  broad  expanse  below.  Dim  in 
the  silenced  port  of  the  citv  rose  the  masts  of  the  galleys;  along 
that  mart  of  luxury  and  of  labor  was  stilled  the  nightly  hum. 
No  lights,  save  here  and  there  before  the  columns  of  a  temple,  or 
in  the  porticos  of  the  voiceless  forum,  broke  the  wan  and  fluctu- 
ating light  of  the  struggling  morn.  From  the  heart  of  the  tor- 
pid city,  so  soon  to  vibrate  with  a  thousand  passions,  there  came 
no  sound;  the  streams  of  life  circulated  not;  they  lay  locked  under 
the  ice  of  sleep.  From  the  huge  space  of  the  amphitheater,  with 
its  stony  seats  rising  one  above  the  other — coiled  and  round  as 
some  slumbering  monster — rose  a  thin  and  ghastly  mist,  which 
gathered  darker,  and  more  dark,  over  the  scattered  foliage  that 
gloomed  in  its  vicinity.  The  city  seemed  as,  after  the  awful 
change  of  seventeen  ages,  it  seems  now  to  the  traveler— a  city  of 
the  dead.* 

The  ocean  itself — that  serene  and  tideless  sea — lay  scarce  less 
hushed,  save  that  from  its  deep  bosom  came,  softened  by  the 
distance,  a  faint  and  regular  murmur,  like  the  breathing  of  its 
sleep;  and  curving  far,  as  with  outstretched  arms,  into  the  green 

*  When  Sir  Walter  Scott  visited  Poiupeii  with  Sir  William  Gell,  almost 
his  only  remark  was  the  exclamation, 

**  The  City  of  the  Dead— the  City  of  the  Deadl" 


TBU  LAST  DATS  OF  POMPEII.  9d 

And  beautiful  land,  it  seemed  unconsciously  to  clasp  to  its  breast 
the  cities  sloping  to  its  margin — Stabise,  and  Herculaneum,  and 
Pompeii — ^those  children  and  darlings  of  the  deep.  *' Ye  slum- 
ber," said  the  Egyptian,  as  he  scowled  over  the  cities,  the  boast 
and  flower  of  Campania;  "  ye  slumber! — would  it  were  the  eter- 
nal repose  of  death  1  As  ye  now — jewels  in  the  crown  of  empire 
— so  once  were  the  cities  of  the  NUe!  Their  greatness  hath  per- 
ished from  them,  they  sleep  amid  ruins,  their  palaces  and  their 
shrines  are  tombs,  the  serpent  coils  in  the  grass  of  their  streets, 
the  lizard  basks  in  their  sohtary  halls.  By  that  mysterious  law 
of  nature,  which  humbles  one  to  exalt  the  other,  ye  have  thriven 
upon  their  ruins;  thou,  haughty  Rome,  hast  usurped  the  glories 
of  Sesostris  and  Semiramis — thou  art  a  robber,  clothing  thyself 
with  their  spoils  I  And  these — slaves  in  thy  triumph — that  I  (the 
last  son  of  a  forgotten  monarch)  survey  below,  reservoirs  of  thine 
all-pervading  power  and  luxury,  I  curse  as  I  behold!  The  time 
shall  come  when  Egypt  shall  be  avenged!  when  the  barbarian's 
steed  shaU  make  his  manger  in  the  Golden  House  of  Nero!  and 
thou  that  hast  sown  the  wind  with  conquest  shall  reap  the  har- 
vest in  the  whirlwind  of  desolation!" 

As  the  Egyptian  uttered  a  prediction  which  fate  so  fearfully 
fulfilled,  a  more  solemn  and  boding  image  of  ill  omen  never 
occurred  to  the  dreams  of  painter  or  poet.  The  morning  light, 
which  can  pale  so  wanly  even  the  young  cheek  of  beauty,  gave 
his  majestic  and  stately  features  almost  the  colors  of  the  grave, 
with  the  dark  hair  falling  massively  around  them,  and  the  dark 
robes  flowing  long  and  loose,  and  the  arm  outstretched  from  that 
Joftv  eminence,  and  the  glittering  eyes,  fierce  with  a  savage 
gladness — haK  prophet  and  half  fiend! 

He  turned  his  gaze  from  the  city  and  the  ocean;  before  him 
lay  the  vineyards  and  meadows  of  the  rich  Campania.  The  gate 
and  walls — an(!ient,  half  Pelasgic — of  the  city,  seemed  not  to 
bound  its  extent.  Villas  and  villages  stretched  on  every  side  up 
the  ascent  of  Vesuvius,  not  nearly  then  so  steep  or  so  lofty  as  at 
present.  For  as  Rome  itself  is  built  on  an  exhausted  volcano,  so 
in  similar  security  the  inhabitants  of  the  South  tenanted  the 
green  and  vine-clad  places  aroimd  a  volcano  whose  fires  they 
believed  at  rest  for  ever.  From  the  gate  stretched  the  long  street 
of  tombs,  various  in  size  and  architecture,  by  which,  on  that 
side,  the  city  is  yet  approached.  Above  all,  rose  the  cloud- 
capped  summit  of  the  Dread  Mountain,  with  the  shadows,  now 
dark,  now  light,  betraying  the  mossy  caverns  and  ashy  rock^ 
which  testified  the  past  conflagrations,  and  might  have 
prophesied — but  man  is  blind — that  which  was  to  come! 

Difficult  was  it  then  and  there  to  guess  the  causes  why  the 
tradition  of  the  place  wore  so  gloomy  and  stern  a  hue;  why,  in 
those  smiling  plains,  for  miles  around — to  Baiae  and  Misenum — 
the  poets  had  imagined  the  entrance  and  thresholds  of  their  hell — 
their  Acheron,  and  their  fabled  Styx:  why,  in  those  Phlegrae,* 
now  laughing  with  the  vine,  they  placed  the  battles  of  the  gods, 
and  supposed  the  daring  Titans  to  have  sought  the  victory  of 

•  Or  I^legrai  Campi:  viz.,  scorched  or  burn»d  fieldg, 


96  TBE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIT. 

heaven — save,  indeed,  that  yet,  in  yon  seared  and  blasted  summit, 
fancy  mip;ht  think  to  read  the  characters  of  the  Olvrnpiaa 
tnunderbolt. 

But  it  was  neither  the  rupiged  hight  of  the  still  volcano,  nor 
the  fertility  of  the  sloping  fields,  nor  the  melancholy  avenue  of 
tombs,  nor  the  glittering  villas  of  a  polished  and  luxurious  people, 
that  now  arrested  the  eye  of  tbe  Egyptian.  On  one  part  of  the 
landscape,  the  mountain  of  Vesuvius  descended  to  the  plain  in  a 
narrow  and  uncultivated  ridge,  broken  here  and  there  by  crags 
and  copses  of  wild  foliage.  At  the  base  of  this  lay  a  marshy 
and  unwl}olesome  pool;  and  the  intent  gaze  of  Arbaces  caught 
the  outline  of  some  hving  form  moving  by  the  marshes,  and 
stooping  ever  and  anon  as  if  to  pluck  its  rank  produce. 

**Ho!"  said  he,  aloud,  "I  have,  then,  another  companion  in 
these  unworldly  night-watches.  The  witch  of  Vesuvius  is  abroad. 
Whatl  doth  she,  too,  as  the  credulous  imagine — doth  she,  too, 
learn  the  lore  of  the  great  stars?  Hath  she  been  uttering  foul 
magic  to  the  moon,  or  culling  (as  her  pauses  betoken)  foul  herbs 
from  the  venomous  marsh?  Well,  I  must  see  this  fellow-laborer. 
Whoever  strives  to  know  learns  that  no  hmnan  lore  is  despicable. 
Despicable  only  you — ye  fat  and  bloated  tilings — slaves  of 
luxury — sluggards  in  thought — ^%vho  cultivating  nothing  but  the 
barren  sense,  dream  that  its  poor  soil  can  produce  alike  the 
myrtle  and  the  laurel.  No,  the  wise  only  can  enjoy — to  us  only 
true  luxury  is  given,  when  mind,  brain,  invention,  experience, 
thought,  learning,  imagination,  all  contribute  like  rivers  to  swell 
the  seas  of  sense! — lone!" 

As  Arbaces  uttered  that  last  and  charmed  word,  his  thoughts 
sunk  at  once  into  a  more  deep  and  profound  channel.  His  steps 
paused;  he  tookmot  his  eyes  from  the  ground;  once  or  twice  he 
smiled  joyously,  and  then,  as  lie  turned  from  his  place  of  vigil, 
and  sought  his  couch,  he  muttered,  "If  death  frowns  so  near,  I 
will  say  at  least  that  I  have  lived — lone  shall  be  mine!" 

The  character  of  Arbaces  was  one  of  those  intricate  and  varied 
webs,  in  which  ev^en  the  mind  that  sat  within  it  was  sometimes 
confused  and  perplexed.  In  him,  the  son  of  a  fallen  dynasty, 
the  outcast  of  a  sunken  people,  was  that  spirit  of  discontented 

{)ride,  which  ever  rankles  in  one  of  a  sterner  mold,  who  feels 
limself  inexorably  shut  from  the  sphere  in  which  his  fathers 
shone,  and  to  which  Nature  as  well  as  birth  no  less  entitles  him- 
self. This  sentiment  has  no  benevolence;  it  wars  with  society,  it 
sees  enemies  in  mankind.  But  with  this  sentiment  did  not  go  its 
companion,  poverty.  Arbaces  possessed  wealth  which  equaled 
that  of  most  of  the  Roman  nobles;  and  tliis  enabled  him  to  gratify 
to  the  utmost  the  passions  which  had  no  outlet  in  business  or 
ambition.  Traveling  from  clime  to  clime,  and  beholding  still 
Rome  everjrvrhere,  he  increased  both  his  hatred  of  society  and 
his  passion  for  pleasure.  He  was  in  a  vast  prison,  which,  how- 
ever, he  could  fill  with  the  ministers  of  luxury.  He  could 
not  escape  from  the  prison,  and  his  only  object  there- 
fore, was  to  give  it  the  characlor  of  a  palace.  The  Egyp- 
tians, from  the  earliest  time,  were  devoted  to  the  joy  of  sense-; 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  ft 

Ailjaces  inherited  both  their  appetite  for  sensuality  p.n?'  tlie  pfiow 
of  imagination  which  struck  light  from  its  rottenness,  buv  stiff, 
unsocial  in  his  pleasures  as  in  his  graver  pursuits,  i*nd  brooking 
neither  superior  nor  equal,  he  admitted  few  to  his  companionship, 
save  the  willing  slaves  of  his  profligacy.  He  was  tne  solitary 
lord  of  a  crowded  harem;  but,  with  all  he  felt  condemned  to  that 
satiety  which  is  the  constant  nurse  of  men  whose  intellect  is 
above  their  pursuits,  and  that  which  once  had  been  the  impulse 
of  passion  froze  down  to  the  ordinance  of  custom.  From  the 
disappointments  of  sense  he  sought  to  raise  himself  by  the  culti- 
vation of  knowledge;  but  as  it  was  not  his  object  to  serve  man- 
kind, so  he  despised  that  knowledge  which  is  practical  and  useful. 
His  dark  imagination  loved  to  exercise  itself  in  those  more  vision- 
ary and  obscure  researches  which  are  ever  the  most  delightful  to 
a  wayward  and  solitary  mind,  and  to  which  he  himself  was  in- 
vited by  the  daring  pride  of  his  disposition  and  the  mysterious 
traditions  of  his  clime.  Dismissing  faith  in  the  confused  creeds 
of  the  heathen  world,  he  reposed  the  greatest  faith  in  the  power 
of  human  wisdom. 

He  did  not  know  (perhaps  no  one  in  that  age  distinctly  did)  the 
limits  which  Nature  imposes  on  our  discoveries.  Seeing  that  the 
higher  we  mount  in  knowledge  the  more  wonders  we  behold,  he 
imagined  that  Nature  not  only  worked  miracles  in  her  ordinary 
course,  but  that  she  might,  by  the  cabala  of  some  master  soul, 
be  diverted  from  that  course  itself.  Thus  he  pursued  Science, 
across  her  appointed  boundaries,  into  the  land  of  perplexity  and 
shadow.  From  the  truths  of  astronomy  he  wandered  into  astro- 
logical fallacy;  from  the  secrets  of  chemistry  he  passed  into  the 
spectral  labyrinth  of  magic;  and  he  who  could  be  skeptical  as  to 
the  power  of  tho  gods,  was  credulously  superstitious  as  to  the 
power  of  man. 

The  cultivation  of  magic,  carried  at  that  day  to  a  singular 
hight  among  the  would-be  wise,  was  especially  Eastern  in  its 
origin;  it  was  ahen  to  the  early  philosophy  of  the  Greeks,  nor  had 
it  been  received  by  them  with  favor  until  Oethanes,  who  accom- 
panied the  army  of  Xerxes,  introduced,  among  the  simple  credu- 
lities of  Hellas,  the  solemn  superstitions  of  Zoroaster.  Under  the 
Eoman  emperors  it  had  become,  however,  naturahzed  at  Rome 
(a  meet  subject  for  Juvenal's  fiery  wit).  Intimately  connected  with 
magic  was  the  worship  of  Isis,  and  the  Egyptian  religion  was  the 
means  by  which  was  extended  the  devotion  to  Egyptian  sorcery. 
The  theurgic,  or  benevolent  magic — the  goetic,  or  dark  and  evil 
necromancy — ^were  alike  in  pre-eminent  repute  during  the  first 
century  of  the  Christian  era;  and  the  marvels  of  Faustus  are  not 
comparable  to  those  of  ApoUonius.  Kings,  courtiers  and  sages, 
all  trembled  before  the  professors  of  the  dread  science.  And  not 
the  least  remarkable  of  his  tribe  was  the  formidable  and  profound 
Arbaces.  His  fame  and  his  discoveries  were  known  to  all  the 
cultivators  of  magic;  they  even  survived  himself.  But  it  was 
not  by  his  real  name  that  he  was  honored  by  the  sorcerer  and 
the  sage;  his  real  name,  indeed,  was  unknown  in  Italy,  for 
*'  Arbaces"  was  not  a  genuinely  Egyptian  but  a  Median  appella- 
tion, whicViu  the  admixture  and  unsettlement  of  the  ancient 


98  THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEH. 

race  J,  had  become  common  in  the  valley  of  the  Nile;  and  there 
were  various  reasons,  not  only  of  pride,  but  of  policy  (for  in 
youth  he  liad  conspired  against  the  majesty  of  Eome),  which  in- 
duced him  to  conceal  his  real  name  and  rank.  But  neither  by 
Hie  name  he  had  borrowed  from  the  Mede,  nor  by  that  which  in 
the  colleges  of  Egypt  would  have  attested  his  origin  from  kings, 
did  the  cultivators  of  magic  acknowledge  the  potent  master. 
He  received  from  their  homage  a  more  mystic  appellation,  and 
was  long  remembered  in  Magna  Grsecia  and  the  Eastern  plains 
by  the  name  of  "  Hermes,  the  Lord  of  the  Flaming  Belt.'  Hig 
subtle  speculations  and  boasted  attributes  of  wisdom,  recorded 
in  various  volumes,  were  among  those  tokens  "of  the  curious 
arts  "  which  the  Christian  converts  most  joyfully,  yet  most  fear- 
fully, burned  at  Ephesus,  depriving  posterity  of  the  proofs  of  tlie 
cunning  of  the  fiend. 

The  conscience  of  Arbaces  was  solely  of  the  intellect — it  was 
awed  by  no  moral  laws.  If  man  imposed  these  checks  upon  the 
herd,  so  he  believed  that  man  by  superior  wisdom  could  raise 
himself  above  them.  **  If  [he  reasonep]  I  have  the  genius  to  im- 
pose laws,  have  I  not  the  right  to  command  my  own  creations? 
Still  more,  have  I  not  the  right  to  control — to  evade — to  scorn — 
the  fabrications  of  yet  meaner  intellects  than  my  own?"  Thus, 
if  he  were  a  villain,  he  justified  his  villany  by  what  ought  to 
have  made  him  virtuous — namely,  the  elevation  of  his  capaci- 
ties. 

Most  men  have  more  or  less  the  passion  for  power;  in  Arbaces 
that  passion  corresponded  exactly  to  his  character.  It  was  not 
the  passion  for  an  external  and  brute  authority.  He  desired  not 
the  purple  and  the  fasces,  the  insignia  of  vulgar  command.  His 
youtnful  ambition  once  foiled  and  defeated,  scorn  had  supplied 
its  place — ^his  pride,  his  contempt  for  Rome — Eome,  which  had 
become  the  synonym  of  the  world  (Rome,  whose  haughty  name 
he  regarded  with  the  same  disdain  as  that  which  Rome  herself 
lavished  upon  the  barbarian),  did  not  permit  him  to  aspire  to 
sway  over  others,  for  that  would  render  him  at  once  the  tool  or 
creature  of  the  emperor.  He,  the  Son  of  the  Great  Race  of  Rameses 
— he  execute  the  orders  of,  and  receive  Ms  power  from  another  I 
— the  mere  notion  filled  him  with  rage.  But  in  rejecting  an 
ambition  that  coveted  nominal  distinctions,  he  but  indulged  the 
more  in  the  ambition  to  rule  the  heart.  Honoring  mental  power 
as  the  greatest  of  eartlily  gifts,  he  loved  to  feel  that  power  pal- 

?ably  in  himself,  by  extending  it  over  all  wliom  he  encountered, 
'hus  had  he  ever  fascinated  and  controlled  tliem.  He  loved  to 
find  subjects  in  men's  souls;  to  rule  over  an  in^isible  and  imma- 
terial empirel  had  he  been  less  sensual  and  less  wealthy  he  might 
have  sought  to  become  the  founder  of  a  new  religion.  As  it  was, 
his  energies  were  checked  by  his  pleasures.  Besides,  however, 
the  vague  love  of  this  moral  sway  (vanity  so  dear  to  sages!)  he 
was  influenced  ])y  a  singular  and  dream-like  devotion  to  all  that 
belonged  to  the  mystic  Land  his  ancestors  had  swayed.  Al- 
though he  disbelieved  in  her  deities,  he  believed  in  the  allegories 
they  represented  (or  rather  he  interpreted  these  allegories  anew). 
He  loved  to  keep  alive  the  worship  of  Egypt,  because  he  thua 


THE  LAST  DA.  TS  OF  POMPEII.  99 

maintained  the  shadow  and  the  recollection  of  her  power.  He 
loaded,  therefore,  the  altars  of  Osiris  and  of  Isis  with  regal  do- 
nations, and  was  ever  anxious  to  dignify  their  priesthood  by  new 
and  wealthy  converts.  The  vow  taken — the  priesthood  em- 
braced— he  usually  chose  the  comrades  of  his  pleasures  from 
those  whom  he  had  made  his  victims,  partly  because  he  thus  se- 
cured to  himself  their  secrecy,  partly  because  he  thus  yet  more 
confirmed  to  himself  his  peculiar  power.  Hence  the  motives  of 
his  conduct  to  Apaecides,  strengthened  as  these  were,  in  that  in- 
stance, by  his  passion  for  lone. 

He  had  seldom  lived  long  in  one  place;  but  as  he  grew  older,  he 
grew  more  wearied  of  the  excitement  of  new  scenes,  and  he  had 
sojourned  among  the  dehghtful  cities  of  Campania  for  a  period 
which  sui-prised  even  himself.  In  fact,  his  pride  somewliat  crip- 
pled his  choice  of  residence.  His  unsuccessful  conspiracy  exclud- 
ed him  from  those  cKmes  which  he  deemed  of  right  his  own 
hereditary  possessions,  and  which  now  cowered,  supine  and 
sunken,  under  the  wings  of  the  Roman  eagle.  Rome  herself  was 
hateful  to  his  indignant  soul:  nor  did  he  love  to  find  his  riches 
rivaled  by  the  minions  of  the  court,  and  cast  into  comparative 
poverty  by  the  mighty  magnificence  of  the  court  itself.  The 
Campanian  cites  proffered  to  him  all  that  nature  craved — the  lux- 
uries of  an  unequaled  climate— the  imaginative  refinements  of  a 
voluptuous  civilization.  He  was  removed  from  the  sight  of  a 
superior  wealth;  he  was  without  rivals  to  his  riches;  he  was  free 
from  the  spies  of  a  jealous  court.  As  long  as  he  was  rich,  none 
pried  into  his  conduct.  He  pursued  the  dark  tenor  of  his  way 
undisturbed  and  secure. 

It  is  the  curse  of  sensualists  never  to  love  tiU  the  pleas- 
ures of  sense  begin  to  pall;  their  ardent  youth  is  frittered  away  in 
countless  desires — their  hearts  are  exhausted.  So,  ever  chasing 
love  and  taught  by  a  restless  imagination  to  exaggerate,  perhaps, 
its  charms,  the  Egyptian  had  spent  all  the  glory  of  his  years  with- 
out attaining  the  object  of  his  desires.  The  beauty  of  to-morrow 
succeeded  the  beauty  of  to-day,  and  the  shadows  bewildered  him 
in  his  pursuit  of  the  substance.  When,  two  years  before  the 
present  date,  he  beheld  lone  he  saw,  for  the  first  time,  one  whom 
he  imagined  he  could  love.  He  stood,  then,  upon  that  bridge  of 
life,  from  which  man  sees  before  him  distinctly  a  wasted  youth 
on  one  side,  and  the  darkness  of  approaching  age  upon  the  other; 
a  time  in  which  we  are  more  than  ever  anxious,  perhaps,  to  se- 
cure to  ourselves,  ere  it  be  yet  too  late,  whatever  we  have  been 
taught  to  consider  necessary  to  the  enjoyment  of  a  life  of  which 
the  brighter  half  is  gone. 

With  an  earnestness  and  a  patience  which  he  had  never  before 
commanded  for  his  pleasures,  Arbaces  had  devoted  himself  to 
win  the  heart  of  lone.  It  did  not  content  him  to  love,  he  de- 
sired to  be  loved.  In  this  hope  he  had  watched  the  expanding 
youth  of  the  beautiful  Neapolitan;  and  knowing  the  influence 
that  the  mind  possesses  over  those  who  are  taught  to  culti- 
vate the  mind,  he  had  contributed  willingly  to  form  the 
genius  and  enlighten  the  intellect  of  lone,  in  the  hope  that  she 
would  then  be  able  to  appreciate  what  he  felt  would  be  his  best 


100  THE  LAST  DA  Y8  OF  POMPEH. 

claim  to  her  affection;  viz.,  a  character  which,  however  criminal 
and  perverted,  was  rich  in  its  original  elements  of  strength  and 
grandeur. 

When  he  felt  that  character  to  be  acknowledged,  he  willingly 
allowed,  nay,  encouraged  her,  to  mrx  among  the  idle  votaries  of 
pleasure,  in  behef  that  her  soul,  fitted  for  higher  commune, 
would  miss  the  companionship  of  his  own,  and  that,  in  com- 
parison with  others,  she  would  learn  to  love  himself.  He  had 
forgot  that,  as  the  sunflower  to  the  sun,  so  youth  turns  to  youth, 
until  his  jealousy  of  Glaucus  suddenly  apprised  him  of  his  eiTor. 
From  that  moment,  though,  as  we  have  seen,  he  knew  not  the 
extent  of  his  danger,  a  fiercer  and  more  tumultuous  direction 
was  given  to  a  passion  long  controled.  Nothing  kindles  the  fire 
of  love  like  a  sprinkling  of  the  anxieties  of  jealousy;  it  takes  then 
a  wilder,  a  more  resistless  flame;  it  forgets  its  softness;  it  ceases 
to  be  tender;  it  assumes  something  of  the  intensity — of  the  fer- 
ocity— of  hate. 

Arbaces  resolved  to  lose  no  further  time  upon  cautious  and 
perilous  preparations;  he  resolved  to  place  an  irrevocable  barrier 
between  himself  and  his  rivals:  he  resolved  to  possess  himself  oi 
the  person  of  lone;  not  that  in  his  present  love,  so  long  nursed 
and  fed  by  hopes  purer  than  those  of  passion  alone,  he  would 
have  been  conteated  with  that  mere  possession.  He  desired  the 
heart,  the  soul,  no  less  than  the  beauty  of  lone;  but  he  imagined 
that  once  separated  by  a  daring  crime  from  the  rest  of  mankind 
— once  bound  to  lone  by  a  tie  that  memory  could  not  break,  she 
would  be  bound  to  concentrate  her  thoughts  on  him — that  his  arts 
would  complete  his  conquest,  and  that,  according  to  the  tnie 
moral  of  the  Roman  and  the  Sabine,  the  empke  obtained  by  force 
would  be  cemented  by  gentler  means.  This  resolution  was  yet 
more  confirmed  in  him  by  the  belief  in  the  prophecies  of  the  stars; 
t^.ey  had  long  foretold  to  him  this  year,  and  even  the  present 
month,  as  the  epoch  of  some  dread  disaster,  meaning  life  itself. 
He  was  driven  to  a  certain  and  limited  date.  He  resolved  to 
crowd,  monarch-like,  on  his  funeral  pyre  all  that  his  soul  held 
most  dear.  In  his  own  words,  if  he  were  to  die,  he  resolved  to 
feel  that  he  had  lived,  and  that  lone  should  be  his  own. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WHAT  BECOMES  OF  lONE  IN  THE  HOUSE  OF  ARBACES— THE  FIRST 
SIGNAL  OF  THE  W^RATH  OF  THE  DREAD  FOE. 

When  lone  entered  the  spacious  hall  of  the  Egyptian,  the 
same  awe  which  had  crept  over  her  brother  impressed  itself  also 
upon  her;  there  seemed  to  her  as  to  him  something  ominous  and 
warning  in  the  still  and  mournful  faces  of  those  dread  Theban 
monsters,  whose  majestic  and  passionless  features  the  marble  so 
well  portrayed: 

Their  look,  with  the  reach  of  past  ages,  was  wise, 
And  the  soul  of  eternity  thought  in  their  eyes. 

The  tall  Ethiopian  slave  grinned  as  he  admitted  her  and  mo- 
tioned her  to  proceed.     Half-way  up  the  hall  she  was  met  by  Ar- 


THE  LAST  DAYS  QF  POMPEIL    >,   .    <   .   101 

baces  liimself,  in  fedtive  robes,  wjii-^li  ^Jittered  Wittnjev^els."  »^1A 
though  it  was  broad  day  without,  the  mansion,  according  to  the 
practice  of  the  luxurious,  was  artificially  darkened,  and  the 
lamps  cast  their  still  and  odor-giving  light  over  the  rich  floors 
and  ivory  roofs. 

"  Beautiful  lone,"  said  Arbaces,  as  he  bent  to  touch  her  hand, 
"  it  is  you  that  have  eclipsed  the  day— it  is  your  eyes  that  light 
up  the  halls— it  is  your  breath  that  fills  them  with  perfumes." 

"You  must  not  talk  to  me  thus,"  said  lone  smiling:  "  you  for- 
get that  your  lore  has  sufiiciently  instructed  my  mind  to 
render  these  graceful  flatteries  to  my  person  unwelcome.  It  was 
you  who  taught  me  to  disdain  adulation;  will  you  unteach  your 
pupil?" 

There  was  something  so  frank  and  charming  in  the  manner  of 
lone,  as  she  thus  spoke,  that  the  Egyptian  was  more  than  ever 
enamored,  and  more  than  ever  disposed  to  renew  the  offense  he 
had  committed;  he,  however,  answered  quickly  and  gayly,  and 
hastened  to  renew  the  conversation. 

He  led  her  through  the  various  chambers  of  a  house,  which 
seemed  to  contain  to  her  eyes,  inexperienced  to  other  splendor 
than  the  minute  elegance  of  Campanian  cities,  the  treasures  of 
the  world. 

In  the  walls  were  set  pictures  of  inestimable  art,  the  lights 
shone  over  statues  of  the  noblest  age  of  Greece.  Cabinets  of 
gems,  each  cabinet  itself  a  gem,  filled  up  the  interstices  of  the 
columns;  the  most  precious  woods  lined  the  threshholds  and  com- 
posed the  doors;  gold  and  jewels  seemed  lavished  all  around. 
Sometimes  they  were  alone  in  these  rooms — sometimes  they 
passed  through  silent  rows  of  slaves,  who,  kneeling  as  she  pass- 
ed, proffered  to  her  offerings  of  bracelets,  of  chains,  of  gems, 
which  the  Egyptian  vainly  entreated  her  to  receive. 

"I  have  often  heard,"  said  she,  wonderingly,  "that  you  were 
rich;  but  I  never  dreamed  of  the  amount  of  your  wealth." 

"  Would  I  could  coin  it  all,"  replied  the  Egyptian,  "  into  one 
crown,  which  I  might  place  upon  that  snowy  brow!" 

"Alas!  the  weight  would  crush  me;  I  should  be  a  second  Tar- 
peia,"  answered  lone,  laughingly. 

"  But  thou  dost  not  disdain  riches,  O  lone!  they  know  not 
what  life  is  capable  of  who  are  not  wealthy.  Gold  is  the  great 
magician  of  earth— it  realizes  our  dreams— it  gives  them  the 
power  of  a  god— there  is  a  grandeur,  a  sublimity,  in  its  posses- 
sion; it  is  the  mightiest,  yet  the  most  obedient  of  our  slaves." 

The  artful  Arbaces  sought  to  dazzle  the  young  Neapolitan  by 
his  treasures  and  his  eloquence;  he  sought  to  awaken  in  her  the 
desire  to  be  mistress  of  what  she  surveyed ;  he  hoped  that  she  would 
confound  the  owner  with  the  possessions,  and  that  the  charms 
of  his  wealth  would  be  reflected  on  himself.  Meanwhile,  lone 
was  secretly  somewhat  uneasy  at  the  gallantries  which  escaped 
from  those  lips,  which;  till  lately,  had  seemed  to  disdain  the 
common  homage  we  pay  to  beauty;  and  with  that  delicate  sub- 
tlety, which  woman  alone  possesses,  she  sought  to  ward  off 
shafts  deliberately  aimed,  and  to  laugh  or  to  talk  away  the 
Cieanij  ig  from  his  warming  language.      Nothing  in  the  world  ia 


m  ^^  LAST  DATS  OF  POMPEII. 

^iove*piwtrtJ\^  tbf\it  tliat'8ame*epeci^s  of  defense;  it  is  the  charm  6t 
the  African  necromancer  who  professed  with  a  feather  to  turn 
aside  the  winds. 

The  Egyptian  was  intoxicated  and  subdued  oj  her  grace  even 
more  than  by  her  beauty;  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  suppress- 
ed his  emotions;  alasl  the  feather  was  only  powerful  against  the 
summer  breezes — it  would  be  the  sport  of  the  storm . 

Suddenly,  as  the\'  stood  in  one  hall,  wliich  was  surrounded  by 
draperies  of  silver  and  white,  the  Egyptian  clapped  his  hands, 
and  as  if  by  enchantment,  a  banquet  rose  from  the  floor — a  couch 
or  throne,  with  crimson  canopy,  ascended  simultaneously  at  the 
feet  of  lone— and  at  the  same  instant  from  behind  the  curtains 
swelled  the  invisible  and  softest  music. 

Arbaces  placed  himself  at  the  foot  of  lone,  and  children,  young 
and  beautiful  as  Loves,  ministered  to  the  feast. 

The  feast  was  over,  the  music  sank  into  a  low  subdued  strain, 
and  Arbaces  thus  addressed  his  beautiful  guest: 

**  Has  thou  never  in  this  dark  and  uncertain  world — hast  thou 
never  aspired,  my  pupil,  to  look  beyond — hast  thou  never  wished 
to  put  aside  the  veil  of  futurity,  and  to  behold  on  the  shores  of 
Fate  the  shadowy  images  of  things  to  be?  For  it  is  not  the  past 
alone  that  has  its  ghosts;  each  event  to  come  has  also  its  spec- 
trum— its  shade;  when  the  hour  arrives,  life  enters  it,  the  sha- 
dow becomes  corporeal,  and  walks  the  world.  Thus,  in  the  land 
beyond  the  grave,  are  ever  so  impalpable  and  spiritual  hosts — 
the  things  to  be,  the  tilings  that  have  been!  If  by  our  wisdom 
we  can  penetrate  that  land,  we  see  the  one  as  the  other,  and 
learn,  as  I  have  learned,  not  alone  the  mysteries  of  the  dead, 
but  also  the  destiny  of  the  living." 

"As  thou  hast  learned! — Can  wisdom  attain  so  far?'' 

"Wilt  thou  prove  my  knowledge,  lone,  and  behold  the  repre- 
sentation of  thine  own  fate?  It  is  a  drama  more  striking  than 
those  of  ^schylus;  it  is  one  I  have  prepared  for  thee,  if  thou  wilt 
see  the  shadows  perform  their  part." 

The  Neapolitan  trembled;  she  thought  of  Glaucus,  and  sighed 
as  well  as  trembled;  were  their  destinies  to  be  united?  Half  in- 
credulous, half  believing,  half  awed,  half  alarmed  by  the  words 
of  her  strange  host,  she  remained  for  some  moments  silent,  and 
then  answered: 

"It  may  re  volt — it  may  terrify;  the  knowledge  of  the  future 
will  perhaps  only  imbitter  the  present!"' 

"Not  so,  lone.  I  liave  myself  looked  upon  thy  future  lot,  and 
the  ghosts  of  thy  Future  bask  in  the  gardens  of  Elysium;  amid 
tlie  asphodel  and  the  rose  they  prepare  the  garlands  of  thy  sweet 
destiny,  and  the  Fates,  so  harsh  to  others,  weave  only  for  thee  the 
web  of  happiness  and  love.  Wilt  thou  then  come  and  behold  thy 
doom,  so  that  thou  mayest  enjoy  it  beforehand?" 

Again  the  heart  of  lone  murmured  "  Glaneiis:'^  she  uttered  a 
half  audible  assent;  the  Egyptian  rose,  and  taking  her  by  the 
hand  he  led  her  across  the  banquet-room — tlie  curtain  withdrew, 
as  by  magic  hands,  and  the  music  broke  forth  in  a  louder  and 
gladder  strain;  they  passed  a  row  of  columns,  on  either  side  of 
which  founteiins  cast  aloft  their  fragrant  waters;  they  descended 


THE  LAST  DATS  OF  POMPEII.  103 

by  broad  and  easy  steps  into  a  garden.  The  eve  had  commenced 
the  moon  was  already  high  in  heaven,  and  those  sweet  flowers 
that  sleep  by  day,  and  fill,  with  ineffable  odors,  the  airs  of  night, 
were  thickly  scattered  amid  alleys  cut  through  the  star-lit  foli- 
age; or,  gathered  in  baskets,  lay  like  offerings  at  the  feet  of  the 
frequent  statues  that  gleamed  along  their  path. 

' '  Wliither  wouldst  thou  lead  me,  Arbaces?"  said  lone,  wonder- 
ingly. 

"  But  yonder,"  said  he,  pointing  to  a  small  building  which 
stood  at  the  end  of  the  vista.  "  It  is  a  temple  consecrated  to  the 
Fates — our  rites  requke  such  holy  ground." 

They  passed  into  a  narrow  hall,  at  the  end  of  which  hung  a 
sable  curtain.  Arbaces  lifted  it;  lone  entered,  and  found  herself 
in  total  darkness. 

"Be  not  alarmed,"  said  the  Egyptian,  *'  the  light  will  rise  in- 
stantly." While  he  spoke,  a  soft,  and  warm,  and  gradual  light 
diffused  itself  around,  as  it  spread  over  each  object,  lone  per- 
ceived that  she  was  in  an  apartment  of  moderate  size  hung  with 
black;  a  couch  with  draperies  of  the  same  hue  was  beside  her. 
In  the  center  of  the  room  was  a  small  altar,  on  which  stood  a 
tripod  of  bronze.  At  one  side,  upon  a  lofty  column,  was  a  colos- 
sal head  of  the  blackest  marble,  which  she  perceived  by  the 
crown  of  wheat-ears  that  encircled  the  brow,  represented  the 
great  Egyptian  goddess.  Arbaces  stood  before  the  altar;  he  had 
laid  his  garland  on  the  shrine  and  seemed  occupied  with  pouring 
into  the  tripod  the  contents  of  a  brazen  vase:  suddenly  from  that 
tripod  leaped  into  life  a  blue,  quick,  darting,  irregular  flame;  the 
Egyptian  drew  back  to  the  side  of  lone,  and  muttered  some 
words  in  a  language  unfamiliar  to  her  ear;  the  curtain  at  the 
back  of  the  altar  waved  tremulously  too  and  fro— it  parted  slow- 
ly, and  in  the  aperture  that  was  thus  made,  lone  beheld  an  in- 
distinct and  pale  landscape,  which  gradually  grew  brighter  and 
clearer  as  she  gazed :  at  length,  she  discovered  plainly  trees,  and 
rivers  and  meadows,  and  all  the  beautiful  diversity  of  the  rich- 
est earth.  At  length,  before  the  landscape,  a  dim  shadow  glided; 
it  rested  opposite  to  lone,  slowly  the  same  charm  seemed  to  ope- 
rate upon  it  as  over  the  rest  of  the  scene;  it  took  form  and  shape, 
and  lo! — in  its  feature  and  in  its  form  lone  beheld  herself! 

Then  the  scene  behind  the  specter  faded  away,  was  succeeded 
by  the  representation  of  a  gorgeous  palace;  a  throne  was  raised 
in  the  oenter  of  its  hall — the  dim  forms  of  slaves  and  guards 
were  ranged  around  it,  and  a  pale  hand  held  over  the  throne  the 
likeness  of  a  diadem. 

A  new  actor  now  appeared :  he  was  clothed  from  head  to  foot 
in  a  dark  robe— his  face  was  concealed — he  knelt  at  the  feet  of 
the  shadowy  lone — he  clasped  her  hand — he  pointed  to  the  throne, 
as  if  to  invite  her  to  ascend  it. 

The  Neapolitan's  heart  b6at  violently.  **  Shall  the  shadow  dis- 
close itself?"  whispered  a  voice  beside  her — ^the  roice  of  Arbaces. 

*' Ah,  yes!"  answered  lone,  softly. 

Arbaces  raised  his  hand — the  specter  seemed  to  drop  the  man- 
tle that  concealed  his  form — and  lone  shrieked — iS  ivas  Arbaces 
kimself  that  thus  knelt  before  her. 


104  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

"  This  is  indeed  thy  fate  I"  whispered  again  the  Egyptian's 
voice  in  her  ear.  "  And  thou  art  d!estined  to  be  the  bride  of 
Arbaces." 

lone  started — the  black  curtain  closed  over  the  phantasmago- 
ria: and  Arbaces  himself — the  real,  the  living  Arbaces — was  at 
her  feet. 

"Oh,  lone,"  said  he.  passionately  gazing  upon  her;  "  listen  to 
one  who  has  long  struggled  vainly  with  his  love.  I  adore  theel 
The  Fates  do  not  He — thou  art  destined  to  be  mine — I  have  sought 
the  world  around,  and  found  none  like  thee.  From  my  youth 
upward,  I  have  sighed  for  such  as  thou  art.  I  have  dreamed  tiU 
I  saw  thee— .1  wake,  and  I  behold  thee.  Turn  not  away  from  me, 
lone;  think  not  of  me  as  thou  hast  thought;  I  am  not  that  being 
— cold,  insensate,  and  morose,  which  I  have  seemed  to  thee. 
Never  woman  had  lover  so  devoted — so  passionate  as  I  will  be  to 
lone.  Do  not  struggle  in  my  clasp:  see — I  release  thy  hand. 
Take  it  from  me  if  thou  wilt — well,  be  it  sol  But  do  not  reject 
me,  lone — do  not  rashly  reject — judge  of  thy  power  over  him 
whom  thou  canst  thus  transform.  I  who  never  knelt  to  mortal 
being,  kneel  to  thee.  I  who  have  commanded  fate,  receive  from 
thee  my  own.  lone,  tremble  not,  thou  art  my  queen — my  god- 
dess— be  my  bride!  All  the  wishes  thou  canst  form  shall  be  ful- 
filled. The  ends  of  the  earth  shall  minister  to  thee — pomj), 
power,  luxury,  shall  be  thy  slaves.  Arbaces  sliall  have  no  ambi- 
tion, save  the  pride  of  obeying  thee.  lone,  turn  upon  me  those 
eyes — shed  upon  me  thy  smile.  Dark  is  my  soul  when  thy  face 
is  hid  from  it — shine  over  me,  my  sun — my  heaven — ^my  day- 
light!   lone,  lone — do  not  reject  my  love!" 

Alone,  and  in  the  power  of  this  singular  and  fearful  man,  lone 
was  not  yet  terrified;  the  respect  of  his  language,  the  softness  of 
his  voice,  reassured  her;  and,  in  her  own  purity,  she  felt  protec- 
tion. But  she  was  confused,  astonished,  it  was  some  moments 
before  she  could  recover  the  power  to  reply. 

"  Rise,  Arbaces!"  said  she  at  length;  and  she  resigned  to  him 
ouce  more  her  hand,  which  she  as  quickly  withdrew  again,  when 
she  felt  upon  it  the  burning  pressure  of  his  lips.  "Rise! 
and  if  thou  art  serious,  if  thy  language  be  in  earnest " 

"  r/r  said  he,  tenderly. 

"Well,  then,  listen  to  me:  you  have  been  my  guardian,  my 
friend,  my  monitor;  for  this  new  character  I  was  not  pre- 
pared; think  not,"  she  added  quickly,  as  she  saw  his  dark  eyes 
glitter  with  the  fierceness  of  his  passion — "  think  not  that  I  scorn 
— that  I  am  untouched — that  I  am  not  honored  by  this  homage; 
but,  say,  canst  thou  hear  me  calmly?" 

"  Ay,  though  thy  words  were  lightning,  and  could  blast  me!" 

"  I  love  another!''  said  lone,  blushingly,  but  in  a  firm  voice. 

•'By  the  gods — by  liell!"  shouted  Arbaces,  rising  to  his  fullest 
height;  *' dare  not  tell  me  tliat — dare  not  mock  me — it  is  im- 
possible! Whom  Iiast  thou  seen — whom  known!  Oli,  lone!  it  is 
thy  woman's  invention,  thy  woman's  art  that  speaks — thou 
wouldst  gain  time:  I  have  surprised — I  have  terrified  thee.  Do 
with  me  as  thou  wilt — say  that  thou  lovest  not  me;  but  say  no* 
that  Uiou  loveet  anotherl"  • 

\ 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIL  106 

'•Alas!"  began  lone;  and  then,  appalled  before  bis  sudden  and 
anlooked-for  violence,  she  burst  into  tears. 

Arbaces  came  nearer  to  her— his  breath  glowed  fiercely  on  her 
cheek;  he  wound  liis  arm  round  her — she  sprang  from  his 
embrace.  In  her  struggle  a  tablet  fell  from  her  bosom  on  the 
ground:  Arbaces  perceived,  and  seized  it — it  was  the  letter  that 
morning  received  from  Glaucus.  lone  sank  upon  the  couch  haK 
dead  with  terror. 

Eapidly  the  eyes  of  Arbaces  ran  over  the  writing;  the  Nea- 
pohtan  did  not  dare  to  gaze  upon  him;  she  did  not  see  the  deadly 
paleness  that  came  over  his  countenance — she  marked  not  his 
withering  frown,  nor  the  quivering  of  his  lip,  nor  the  convulsions 
that  heaved  his  breast.  He  read  it  to  the  end,  and  then,  as  the 
letter  fell  from  his  hand,  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  deceitful  calm- 
ness— 

*'  Is  the  writer  of  this  the  man  thou  lovest?* 

lone  sobbed,  but  answered  not. 

"  Speak!"  he  rather  shrieked  than  said. 

*' It  is— it  is!" 

"And  his  name — it  is  written  here — his  name  is  Glaucus!" 

"lone,  clasping  her  hand,  looked  round  as  if  for  succor  and 
escape. 

"Then  hear  me,"  said  Arbaces,  sinking  his  voice  into  a 
whisper;  "thou  shalt  go  to  thy  tomb  rather  than  to  his  arms! 
What!  thinkest  thou  Arbaces  will  brook  a  rival  such  as  this  puny 
Greek?  What!  thinkest  thou  that  he  has  watched  the  fruit  ripen, 
to  yield  it  to  another!  Pretty  fool— no!  Tliou  art  mine— aU— only 
mine:  and  thus — thus  I  seize  and  claim  thee!"  As  he*  spoke  he 
caught  lone  in  his  arms;  and,  in  that  ferocious  grasp,  was  all  th« 
energy — less  of  love  than  of  revenge. 

But  to  lone  despair  gave  supernatural  strength;  she  again  tore 
herself  from  him— she  rushed  to  that  part  of  the  room  by  which 
Bhe  had  entered — she  half  withdrew  the  curtain — he  seized  her — 
again  she  broke  away  from  him — and  fell,  exhausted,  and  with  a 
loud  shriek,  at  the  base  of  the  column  which  supported  the 
head  of  the  Egyptian  goddess.  Arbaces  paused  for  a  moment, 
as  if  to  regain  his  breath;  and  then  once  more  darted  upon  his 
prey. 

At  that  instant  the  curtain  was  rudely  torn  aside,  the  Egyptian 
felt  a  fierce,  strong  grasp  upon  liis  shoulder.  He  turned — he  be- 
held before  him  the  flashing  eyes  of  Glaucus,  and  the  pale,  worn 
but  menacing  countenance  of  Apa&cides.  "  Ah  1"  he  muttered, 
as  he  glared  from  one  to  the  other,  what  fury  hath  sent  thee 
hither?" 

"Ah,"  answered  Glaucus,  and  he  closed  at  once  with  the 
Egyptian.  Meanwhile,  Apgecides  raised  his  sister,  now  lifeless, 
/rom  the  ground;  his  strength,  exhausted  by  a  mind  long  over- 
wrought, did  not  suffice  to  bear  her  away,  light  and  delicat« 
though  her  shape;  he  placed  her,  therefore,  on  the  couch,  and 
stood  over  her  wdth  a  brandishing  knife,  w^atcliing  the  contest  be- 
tween Glaucus  and  the  Egyi^tian,  and  ready  to  plunge  his  weapon 
in  the  bosom  of  Arbaces  should  he  be  victorious  in  the  struggle. 

There  is,  perhaps,  nothiosj  on  earth  so  terrible  as  the  naked  and 


iOb  TEE  LAST  DAYS  OP  POMFEtl, 

unarmed  contest  of  animal  strength,  no  weapon  biit  thoBe  whiok 
Nature  supplies  to  rage.  But  the  antagomsts  were  now  locked 
in  eaxjh  other's  grasp — the  hand  of  each  seeking  the  throat  of  the 
other — tlie  face  drawn  back — the  fierce  eyes  flashing — the  mus- 
cles strained — the  veins  swelled — the  lips  apart — the  teeth  set. 
Both  were  strong  beyond  the  ordinary  power  of  men,  both  ani- 
mated by  relentless  wrath.  They  coiled  ;  they  wound  round  each 
other ;  they  rocked  two  and  fro;  they  swayed  from  end  to  end  of 
tlieir  confined  arena ;  they  uttered  cries  of  ire  and  revenge. 
They  were  now  before  the  altar,  now  at  the  base  of  the  colunm 
M'here  the  struggle  had  commenced  ;  they  drew  back  for  breath, 
Arbaces  leaned  against  the  column,  Glaucus  a  few  paces  apart. 

*'  O  ancient  goddess  I"  exclaimed  Arbaces,  clasping  the  column, 
and  raising  his  eyes  toward  the  sacred  image  it  supported,  *'  pro- 
tect thy  chosen,  proclaim  thy  vengeance  against  this  tiling  of  an 
upstart  creed,  who  with  sacrilegious  violence  profanes  thy  resting- 
place  and  assails  thy  servant." 

As  he  spoke,  the  still  and  vast  features  of  the  goddess  seemed 
suddenly  to  glow  with  life;  tliroughthe  black  marble,  as  through 
a  transparent  veil,  flushed  luminously  a  crimson  and  burning 
hue  ;  around  the  head  played  and  darted  coruscations  of  livid 
lightning  ;  the  eyes  became  like  balls  of  lurid  fire,  and  seemed 
fixed  in  withering  and  intolerable  wrath  upon  the  countenance 
of  the  Greek.  Awed  and  appalled  by  this  sudden  and  m^ystic 
answer  to  the  prayer  of  his  foe,  and  not  free  from  the  hereditary 
Buperstitions  of  his  race,  the  cheeks  of  Glaucus  paled  before  that 
strange  and  ghastly  animation  of  the  marble — his  knees  knocked 
together — he  stood  seized  with  a  divine  panic,  dismayed,  aghast, 
half  munanned  before  his  foe  t  Arbaces  gave  him  not  breathing 
time  to  recover  his  stupor :  "  Die,  wretch,-"  he  shouted,  in  a  voice 
of  thunder,  as  he  sprang  upon  the  Greek  ;  "  the  Mighty  Mother 
claims  tb*^e  as  a  living  sacrifice  1"  Taken  thus  by  surprise  in  the 
first  consternation  of  his  superstitious  fear,  the  Greek  lost  his 
footing — the  marble  floor  was  as  slippery  as  glass — he  slid — he 
fell.    Arbaces  planted  his  foot  on  the  breast  of  his  fallen  foe. 

ApaBcides,  taught  by  his  sacred  profession,  as  well  as  by  his 
knowledge  of  Arbaces,  to  distrust  all  miraculous  intei-positions, 
had  not  shared  the  dismay  of  his  companion;  he  rushed  forward 
— his  knife  gleamed  in  the  air — the  watchful  Egyptian  caught  his 
arm  as  it  descended — one  MTench  of  his  powerful  hand  tore  the 
weapon  from  the  weak  grasp  of  the  priest— one  sweeping  blow 
stretched  him  to  the  earth — >\ith  a  loud  and  exulting  yell  Arba- 
ces brandished  the  knife  on  high.  Glaucus  gazed  upon  his  im- 
pending fate  with  unwinking  eyes,*and  in  the  stern  and  scornful 
resignation  of 'a  fallen  gladiator,  when,  at  that  instant,  the  floor 
shook  under  them  with  a  rapid  and  convulsive  throe.  A  might- 
ier ^^pirit  than  that  of  the  Egyptian  was  abroad — a  giant  and 
crushing  power,  before  which  sank  into  sudden  impotence  his 
passions  and  his  arts.  It  wcke — it  stirred — that  Dread  Demon  of 
the  Earthquake — laughing  to  scora  alike  the  magic  of  human 
guile  and  the  malice  of  human  wrath.  As  a  Titan,  on  whom  the 
mountains  are  piled,  it  roused  itself  from  the  sleep  of  years — it 
H^oved  on  its  toi'tured  couch — the  caverns  below  moaned  an4 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII,  lOT 

trembled  beneath  the  motion  of  one  of  its  limbs.  In  the  moment 
of  his  vengeance  and  his  power,  the  self -prized  demigod  wajs 
humbled  to  his  real  clay.  Far  and  wide  along  the  soil  went  a 
hoarse  and  rumbling  sound— the  curtains  of  the  chamber  shook 
as  at  the  blast  of  a  storm— the  altar  rocked— the  tripod  reeled— 
and,  high  over  the  place  of  contest,  the  column  trembled  and 
Avaved  from  side  to  side— the  sable  head  of  the  goddess  tottered 
and  fell  from  its  pedestal;  and  as  the  Egyptian  stooped  above  his 
intended  victim,  right  upon  his  bended  form,  right  between  the 
shoulder  and  neck,  struck  the  marble  mass!  the  shock  stretched 
him  like  the  blow  of  death,  at  once,  suddenly,  without  sound  or 
motion,  or  semblance  of  life,  upon  the  floor,  apparently  crushed 
by  the  very  divinitv  he  had  impiously  animated  and  invokedl 

"  The  Earth  has  preserved  her  children,"  said  Glaucus,  stagger- 
ing to  his  feet.  "  Blessed  be  the  dread  convulsion  1  Let  us  wor- 
ship the  providence  of  the  gods!  He  assisted  Apaecides  to  rise, 
and  then  turned  upward  the  face  of  Arbaces;  it  seemed  locked  as 
if  in  death;  blood  gushed  from  the  Egyptian's  lips  over  his  glit- 
tering robes;  he  fell  heavily  from  the  arms  of  Glaucus,  and  the 
red  stream  trickled  slowly  along  the  marble.  Again  the  earth 
shook  beneath  their  feet;  they  were  forced  to  cling  to  each 
other;  the  convulsion  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  came;  they  tarried 
no  longer;  Glaucus  bore  lone  lightly  in  his  arms,  and  they  fled 
from  the  unhallowed  spot.  But  scarce  had  they  entered  the 
garden  when  they  were  met  on  all  sides  by  flying  and  disordered 
groups  of  women  and  slaves,  whose  festive  and  glittering  gar- 
ments contrasted  in  mockery  the  solemn  terror  of  the  hour;  they 
did  not  appear  to  heed  the  strangers— they  were  occupied  only 
with  their  oyvn  fears.  After  the  tranquillity  of  sixteen  years,  that 
burning  and  treacherous  soil  again  menaced  destruction;  they 
uttered  but  one  cry,  '*  the  earthquake!  the  earthquake!"  and 
passing  unmolested  from  [the  midst  of  them  Apaecides  and  his 
companions,  without  entering  the  house,  hastened  down  one  of 
the  alleys,  passed  a  small  open  gate,  and  there,  sitting  on  a  little 
mound  over  which  spread  the  gloom  of  the  dark  ?green  aloes, 
the  moonlight  fell  on  the  bended  figure  of  the  blind  girl— she 
was  weeping  bitterly.] 

BOOK  THE  THIRD. 

CHAPTER  I. 

THE   FORUM   OF    THE    POMPEIANS — THE    FIRST    RUDE    MACHINERY 
BY  WHICH  THE  NEW  ERA  OF  THE  WORLD  WAS  WROUGHT. 

It  was  early  noon,  and  the  forum  was  crowded  alike  with  the 
busy  and  the  idle.  As  at  Paris  at  this  day,  so  at  that  time  in  the 
cities  of  Italy,  men  lived  almost  wholly  out  of  doors;  the  public 
buildings,  the  porticos,  the  baths,  the  temples  themselves  might 
be  considered  their  real  homes;  it  was  no  wonder  that  they  dec- 
orated so  gorgeously  these  favorite  places  of  resort— they  felt  for 
them  a  soii;  of  domestic  affection  as  well  as  a  public  pride.  And 
animated  was,  indeed,  the  aspect  of  the  forum  of  Ppn^eii  at  that 


m  THE  LA^iT  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII. 

rime.  Along  its  broad  pavement,  composed  of  large  flagp  o^ 
marble,  were  assembled  various  groups,  conversing  in  that  ener- 
getic fashion  which  appropriates  a  gesture  to  every  word,  and 
•t^hich  is  still  the  characteristic  of  the  people  of  the  south.  Here, 
In  seven  stalls  en  one  side  the  colonnade,  sat  the  money-changers, 
with  their  glittering  heaps  before  them,  and  mercliauts  and  sea- 
men in  various  costumes  crowding  around  the  stalls.  On  one 
Bide  several  men  in  long  togas  were  seen  bustling  rapidly  up  to  a 
stately  edifice,  where  the  magistrates  administered  justice — 
these  were  the  lawyers,  active,  chattering,  joking,  and  punning 
as  you  may  find  them  at  this  day  in  Westminster.  In  the  center 
of  the  space  pedestals  supported  various  statues,  of  which  the 
most  remarkable  was  the  stately  form  of  Cicero.  Around  the 
court  ran  a  regular  and  symmetrical  colonnade  of  Doric  architec- 
ture; and  there  several,  whose  business  drew  them  early  to  the 
place,  were  taking  the  slight  morning  repast  which  made  an 
Italian  breakfast,  talking  vehemently  on  the  earthquake  of  the 
preceding  night  as  they  dipped  pieces  of  bread  in  their  cups  of 
diluted  wine.  In  the  open  space,  too,  you  might  perceive  various 
traders  exercising  the  arts  of  their  calling.  Here  one  man  was 
holding  out  ribands  to  a  fair  dame  from  the  country;  another 
man  was  vaunting  to  a  stout  farmer  the  excellence  of  his  shoes; 
a  third,  a  kind  of  stall-restaurateur,  still  so  common  in  the  Italian 
cities,  was  supplying  many  a  hungry  mouth  with  hot  messes 
from  his  small  and  itinerant  stove,  while — contrast  strongly  typi- 
cal of  the  mingled  bustle  and  intellect  of  the  time — close  by,  a 
schoolmaster  was  expounding  to  his  puzzled  pupils  the  elements 
of  the  Latin  grammar.  A  gallery  above  the  portico,  which  was 
ascended  by  small  wooden  staircases,  had  also  its  throng;  though, 
as  here  the  immediate  business  of  the  place  was  mainly  carried 
on,  its  groups  wore  a  more  quiet  and  serious  air. 

Every  now  and  then  the  crowd  below  resi)ectfully  gave  way 
as  some  senator  swept  along  to  the  Temple  of  Jupiter  (which 
filled  up  one  side  of  the  forum,  and  was  the  senators'  hall  of 
meeting),  nodding  with  ostentatious  condescension  to  such  of  his 
friends  or  clients  as  he  distinguished  among  the  throng.  Ming- 
ling amid  the  gay  dresses  of  the  better  orders  you  saw  the  hardy 
forpas  of  the  neighboring  farmers,  as  they  made  their  way  to  the 
public  granaries.  Hard  by  the  temple  you  caught  a  view  of  the 
triumphal  arch,  and  the  long  street  bevond  swarming  with  in- 
habitants; in  one  of  the  niches  of  the  arch  a  fountain  played, 
cheerily  sparkling  in  tlie  sunbeams;  and  above  its  cornice  rose 
the  bronzed  and  equestrian  statue  of  Caligula,  strongly  contrast- 
ing the  gay  summer  skies.  Behind  the  stalls  of  the  money- 
changers was  that  building  now  called  the  Pantheon;  and  a 
crowd  of  the  poorer  Pompeians  passed  through  the  small  vesti- 
bule which  admitted  to  the  interior,  with  panniers  under  their 
arms,  pressing  on  toward  a  platform,  placed  between  two  col- 
umns, where  such  provisions  as  the  priests  had  rescued  from 
sacrifice  were  exposed  for  sale. 

^  At  one  of  the  public  edifices  appropriated  to  the  business  of  the 
dty,  workmen  were  employed  upon  the  columns,  and  you  heard 
t|ie  noise  of  their  labor  every  riow  and  then  rising  ei,bgv^  th^ 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  1C9 

hum  of  the  multitude  :  the  columns  arg  unfinished  to  this  day  I 
iVll,  then,  united,  nothing  could  exceed  in  variety  the  costumes, 
the  ranks,  the  manners,  the  occupations  of  the  crowd;  nothing 
could  exceed  the  bustle,  the  gayet}^  the  animation,  the  flow  and 
flush  of  life  all  around.  You  saw  there  all  the  myriad  signs  of  a 
heated  and  feverish  civilization — where  pleasure  and  commerce, 
idleness  and  labor,  avarice  and  ambition,  mingled  in  one  gulf 
their  motley,  rushing,  yet  harmonious,  streams. 

Facing  the  steps  of  the  Temple  of  Jupiter,  Math  folded  arms, 
and  a  knit  and  contemptuoi:s  brow,  stood  a  man  of  about  fifty 
years  of  age.  His  dress  was  remarkably  plain— not  so  much 
from  its  material,  as  from  the  absence  of  all  those  ornaments 
which  were  worn  by  the  Pompeians  of  every  rank — partly  from 
the  love  of  show,  partly  also  because  they  were  chiefly  wrought 
into  those  shapes  deemed  most  eflacacious  in  resisting  the  assaults 
of  magic  and  the  influence  of  the  evil  eye.  His  forehead  was 
high  and  bald;  the  few  locks  that  remained  at  the  back  of  the 
head  were  concealed  by  a  sort  of  a  cowl,  which  made  a  part  of 
his  cloak,  to  be  raised  or  lowered  at  pleasure,  and  was  now  drawn 
half-way  over  the  head,  as  a  protection  from  the  rays  of  the  sun. 

The  color  of  his  garments  was  brown,  no  popular  hue  with  the 
Pompeians;  all  the  usual  admixtures  of  scarlet  or  purple  seemed 
carefully  excluded.  His  belt,  or  girdle,  contained  a  small  recep- 
tacle for  ink,  which  hooked  on  the  girdle,  a  stilus  (or  instrument 
of  writing),  and  tablets  of  no  ordinary  size.  What  was  rather 
remarkable,  the  cincture  held  no  purse,  which  was  the  almost 
indispensable  appurtenance  of  the  girdle,  even  when  that  purse 
had  the  misfortune  to  be  empty! 

It  was  not  often  that  the  gay  and  egotistical  Pompeians  busied 
themselves  with  observing  the  countenances  and  actions  of  their 
neighbors;  but  there  was  that  in  the  lip  and  eye  of  this  by-stander 
80  remarkably  bitter  and  disdainful,  as  he  surveyed  the  religious 
procession  sweeping  up  the  stairs  of  the  temple,  that  it  could  not 
fail  to  arrest  the  notice  of  many. 

"Who  is  yon  cynic?"  asked  a  merchant  of  his  companion,  a 
jeweler. 

*'It  is  Olinthus,"  replied  the  jeweler;  "a  reputed  Nazarene." 

The  merchant  shuddered.  "A  di*ead  sect!"  said  he,  in  a 
whispered  and  fearful  Toice.  '*Itis  said,  that  when  they  meet 
at  nights  they  always  commence  their  ceremonies  by  the  murder 
of  a  new  born  babe:  they  profess  a  community  of  goods,  too — 
the  wretches !  A  community  of  goods !  What  would  become  of 
merchants,  or  jewelers  either,  if  such  notions  were  in  fashion." 

"  That  is  very  true,"  said  the  jeweler;  "besides,  they  wear  no 
jewels — they  mutter  imprecations  when  they  see  a  serpent;  and 
at  Pompeii  all  our  ornaments  are  serpentine." 

*'  Do  but  observe,'  said  a  thu-d,  who  was  a  fabricant  of  bronze, 
*'how  yon  Nazarene  scowls  at  the  piety  of  the  sacrificial  process 
sion.  He  is  murmuring  curses  on  "the  temple,  be  sure.  Do  you 
know,  Celcinus,  that  tliis  fellow,  passing  by  my  shop  the  other 
day,  and  seeing  me  employed  on  a  statue  of  Minerva,  told  me 
with  a  frown  that,  had  it  been  marble,  he  would  have  broken  it; 
but  the  broB?:©  wa&  too  strong  iov  \mi'    *  ^ye^  a  goddess  I '  mid 


110  THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEJT. 

I.  *A  goddess  I'  answered  the  atheist;  *it  is  a  demon— an  evil 
spirit  1 '  Then  lie  passed  on  his  way  cursing.  Are  such  things 
to  be  borne?  What  marvel  that  the  earth  heaved  so  fearfully 
kist  night,  anxious  to  reject  the  atlieist  from  her  bosom?  An 
atheifet,  do  I  say?  worse  still — a  scorner  of  the  Fine  Arts  1  Woe 
to  us  fabricants  of  bronze,  if  such  fellows  as  this  give  the  law  to 
society  I " 

"These  are  the  incendiaries  that  burned  Rome  under  Nero," 
groaned  the  jeweler. 

While  such  were  the  friendly  remarks  provoked  by  the  air  and 
faith  of  the  Nazarene,  Olinthus  himself  became  sensible  of  the 
effect  he  was  producing;  he  turned  his  eyes  round,  and  observed 
the  intent  faces  of  the  accumulating  throng,  whispering  as  they 
gazed;  and  surveying  them  for  a  moment  with  an  expression, 
first  of  defiance,  and  afterward  of  compassion,  he  gathered  his 
cloak  round  him  and  passed  on,  muttering  audibly,  "Deluded 
idolaters  I — did  not  last  night's  convulsion  warn  ye?  Alas !  how 
will  ye  meet  the  last  day?" 

The  crowd  that  heard  these  boding  words  gave  them  different 
interpretations,  according  to  their  different  shades  of  ignorance 
and  of  fear;  all,  however,  concurred  in  imagining  them  to  con- 
vey some  awful  imprecation.  They  regarded  the  Christian  as 
the  enemy  of  mankind;  the  epithets  they  lavished  upon  him,  of 
w  hich  "  Atheist "  was  the  most  favored  and  frequent,  may  serve, 
perhaps,  to  warn  us,  believers  of  that  same  creed  now  triumph- 
ant, how  we  indulge  the  persecution  of  opinion  Olinthus  then 
underwent,  and  how  we  apply  to  those  whose  notions  differ  from 
our  own  the  terms  at  that  day  lavished  on  the  fathers  of  our 
faith. 

As  Olinthus  stalked  through  the  crowd,  and  gained  one  of  the 
more  private  places  of  egress  from  the  fonmi,  he  perceived  gaz- 
ing upon  him  a  pale  and  earnest  countenance,  which  he  was  not 
slow  to  recognize. 

Wrapped  in  a  pallium  that  partially  concealed  his  sacred  robes, 
the  young  Apaecides  surveyed  the  disciple  of  that  new  and  mys- 
terious creed,  to  which  at  one  time  he  had  been  half  a  convert. 

"  Is  he,  too,  an  impostor?  Does  this  man,  so  plain  and  simple 
in  life,  in  garb,  in  mien — does  he,  too,  like  Arbaces,  make  auster- 
ity the  robe  of  the  sensualist?  Does  the  veil  of  Vesta  hide  the 
vices  of  the  prostitute?" 

Olinthus,  accustomed  to  men  of  all  classes,  and  combining 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  his  faith  a  profound  experience  of  his 
kind,  guessed,  i)erhaps,  by  the  index  of  the  countenance,  some- 
thing of  what  passed  within  the  breast  of  the  priest.  He  met  the 
survey  of  Apaecides  with  a  steady  eye,  and  a  brow  of  serene 
and  open  candor. 

"  Peace  be  with  thee!"  said  he,  saluting  Apeecidee. 

"  Peace!"  echoed  the  priest,  in  so  liollow  a  tone  that  it  went  at 
once  to  the  heart  of  the  Nazarene. 

•*  In  that  wish,"  continued  Olinthus,  "  all  good  things  are  com- 
bined— without  vii-tue  thou  canst  not  have  peace.  Like  the  rain- 
bow. Peace  rests  upon  the  earth,  but  its  arch  is  lost  in  heaven! 
Heaven  bathes  it  in  hues  of  light— it  springs  up  amid  tears  and 


THE  LAST  DaXS  OF  POMPEII  111 

clouds— it  is  a  reflection  of  the  Eternal  Sun— it  is  an  assurance  of 
•aim— it  is  the  sign  of  a  great  covenant  between  Man  and  God. 
Such  peace,  Oh,  young  man  I  is  the  smile  of  the  soul;  it  is  an 
emanation  from  the  distant  orb  of  immortal  light.    Peace  be 

with  you  I"  ,      ,  -  A.1. 

"  Alas  I"  began  Apsecides,  when  he  caught  the  gaze  of  the  cu- 
rious loiterers,  inquisitive  to  know  what  could  possibly  be  the 
theme  of  conversation  between  a  reputed  Nazarene  and  a  priest 
of  Isis.  He  stopped  short,  and  then  added  in  a  low  tone—"  We 
cannot  converse  here.  I  will  follow  thee  to  the  banks  of  the 
river;  there  is  a  walk  which  at  tliis  time  is  usually  deserted  and 
solitary.  . 

OUnthus  bowed  assent.  He  passed  through  the  streets  with  a 
hasty  step,  but  a  quick  and  observant  eye.  Every  now  and  then 
he  exchanged  a  significant  glance,  a  shght  sign,  with  some  pas- 
senger, whose  garb  usually  betokened  the  wearer  to  belong  to 
the  humbler  classes;  for  Christianity  was  in  this  the  type  of  all 
other  and  less  mightv  revolutions— the  grain  of  mustard-seed  was 
in  the  hearts  of  the  lowly.  Amid  the  huts  of  poverty  and  labor, 
the  vast  stream  which  afterward  poui'ed  its  broad  waters  beside 
the  cities  and  palaces  of  earth,  took  its  neglected  source. 


CHAPTER  n. 

THE  NOONDAY  EXCURSION  ON  THE  CAMPANIAN  SEAS. 

"  But  teU  me,  Glaucus,"  said  lone,  as  they  glided  down  the 
rippling  Samus  in  their  boat  of  pleasure,  *'  how  earnest  thou 
with  Apaecides  to  my  rescue  from  that  bad  man?" 

*'  Ask  Nydia  yonder,"  answered  the  Athenian,  pointing  to  the 
bhnd  girl,  who  sat  at  a  little  distance  from  them,  leaning  pen- 
sively over  her  lyre;  ''  she  must  have  thy  thanks,  not  we.  It 
seems  that  she  came  to  my  house,  and  finding  me  from  home, 
sought  thy  brother  in  his  temple;  he  accompanied  her  to  Arbaces; 
on  their  way  they  encountered  me,  with  a  company  of  friends, 
whom  thy  kind  letter  had  given  me  a  spirit  cheerful  enough  to 
join.  Nydia's  quick  ear  detected  my  voice— a  few  words  sufficed 
to  make  me  the  companion  of  Apascides;  I  told  not  my  associ- 
ates why  I  left  them— could  I  trust  thy  name  to  their  light 
tongues  and  gossiping  opinion?  Nydia  led  us  to  the  garden-gate, 
by  which  we  afterward  bore  thee — we  entered,  and  were  about 
to  plunge  into  the  mysteries  of  that  evil  house,  when  we  heard 
thy  cry  in  another  diiection.    Thou  knowest  the  rest." 

lone  blushed  deeplv.  She  then  raised  her  eyes  to  those  of 
Glaucus,  and  he  felt  all  the  thanks  she  could  not  utter.  "  Come 
hither,  my  Nydia,"  said  she,  tenderly  to  the  Thessahan. 

"Did  I  not  tell  thee  that  thou  shouldst  be  my  sister  and 
friend?  Hast  thou  not  abready  been  more?— my  guardian,  my 
preserver  I" 

"  It  is  nothing,"  answeted  Nydia  coldly,  and  without  stirring. 

"  Ahl  I  forgot,"  continued  lone,  "I  should  come  to  thee;"  and 
she  moved  along  the  benches  till  she  reached  the  place  where 
Nydia  sat,  and  flinging  her  arms  c?are«singly  around  her,  covered 
her  cheeks  with  kisses. 


|1«  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

Nydia  was  that  morning  paler  than  her  wont,  and  her  counte- 
uance  grew  even  more  wan  and  colorless  as  she  submitted  to  the 
embrace  of  the  Neapolitan.  *'  But  how  earnest  thou,  Nydla," 
whispered  lone,  "to  surmise  so  faithfully  the  danger  I  was  ex- 
posea  to?    Didst  thou  know  aught  of  the  Egj-ptian?" 

"  Yes,  I  knew  of  his  vices." 

"  And  how?" 

"  Noble  lone,  I  have  been  a  slave  to  the  vicious— those  whom  I 
served  were  his  minions." 

"  And  thou  hast  entered  his  house,  since  thou  knewest  so  well 
that  private  entrance?" 

"  I  have  played  on  my  lyre  to  Arbaces,"  answered  the  Thesssr 
lian  with  embarrassment." 

"  And  thou  hast  escaped  the  contagion  from  which  thou  hast 
saved  lone!"  returned  the  NeapoUtan,  in  a  voice  too  low  for  the 
9ar  of  Glaucus. 

"  Noble  lone,  I  have  neither  beauty  nor  station;  I  am  a  chUd, 
and  a  slave,  and  blind.     The  despicable  are  ever  safe." 

It  was  with  a  pained,  and  proud,  and  indignant  tone  that 
Nydia  made  this  humble  reply;  and  lone  felt  that  she  only 
wounded  Nydia  by  pursuing  the  subject.  She  remained  silent, 
and  the  bark  now  floated  into  the  sea. 

"Confess  that  I  was  right,  lone,"  said  Glaucus,  "in  prevailing 
on  thee  not  to  waste  this  beautiful  noon  in  thy  chamber — confess 
that  I  was  right," 

"  Thou  wert  right,  Glaucus,"  said  Nydia  abruptly. 

"  The  dear  child  speaks  for  thee,"  returned  the  Athenian. 

"But  permit  me  to  move  opposite  to  thee,  or  our  light  boat 
will  be  overbalanced." 

So  saying,  he  took  his  seat  directly  opposite  to  lone,  and  lean- 
ing forward,  he  fancied  that  it  was  her  breath,  and  not  the  winds 
of  summer,  that  flung  fragrance  over  the  sea. 

"  Thou  wert  to  tell  me,"  said  Glaucus,  "  why  for  so  many  days 
thy  door  was  closed  to  me." 

"Oh,  think  of  it  no  morel"  answered  lone  quickly;  "I  gave 
my  ear  to  what  I  know  was  the  malice  of  slander." 

"  And  my  slanderer  was  the  Egyptian?" 

lone's  silence  assented  to  the  question, 

"  His  motives  are  sufficiently  obvious." 

"Talk  not  of  him,"  said  lone,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands,  as  if  to  shut  out  his  very  thought. 

'  'Perhaps  he  may  be  already  by  the  banks  of  the  slow  Styx," 
resumed  Glacus;  "  yet  in  that  case  we  should  have  heard  of  his 
death.  Thy  brother,  methinks,  hath  felt  the  dark  influence  of 
his  gloomy  soul.  When  we  aiTived  last  night  at  thy  house,  he 
left  me  abruptly.     Will  he  ever  vouchsafe  to  be  my  friend?" 

"  He  is  consumed  with  some  secret  care,"  answered  lone,  tear- 
fully. "Would  that  we  could  lure  him  from  himself  1  Let  us 
join  in  that  tender  office." 

"  He  shall  be  my  brother,"  returned  the  Greek. 

"  How  calmly,"  said  lone,  rousing  herself  from  the  gloom  into 
which  her  thoughts  of  Apa3cides  had  plunged  her,  "  how  calmly 
the  clouds  seem  to  repose  in  th«  heaven;  and  yet  you  tell  me,  for 


THE  LAST  BAYS  OF  POMPEH,  113 

I  knew  it  not  myself,  that  the  earth  shook  beneath  us  last  night." 

"  It  did,  and  more  violently  they  say  than  it  has  done  since  the 
great  convulsion  sixteen  years  ago;  the  land  we  live  in  yet  nurses 
mysterious  terror;  and  the  reign  of  Pluto,  which  spreads  beneath 
our  burning  fields,  seems  rent  with  unseen  commotion.  Didst 
thou  not  feel  the  earthquake,  Nydia,  wh^e  thou  wert  seated  last 
night?  and  was  it  not  the  fear  that  it  occasioned  thee  that  made 
thee  weep?" 

*'  I  felt  the  soil  creep  and  heave  beneath  me,  like  some  mons- 
trous serpent?"  answered  Nydia;  "but  as  I  saw  nothing,  I  did 
not  fear,  I  imagined  the  convulsion  to  be  a  spell  of  the  Egyptian's. 
They  say  he  has  power  over  the  elements." 

"  Thou  art  a  Thessalian.  my  Nydia,"  replied  Glaucus,  "and  hast 
a  national  right  to  believe  in  magic." 

"Magic! — who  doubts  it?"  answered  Nydia,  simply;  "dost 
thou?" 

"Until  last  night  (when  a  necromantic  prodigy  did  indeed 
appal  me),  methinks  I  was  not  credulous  in  any  other  magic  save 
that  of  love!"  said  Glaucus,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  and  fixing  his 
eyes  on  lone. 

"Ah!"  said  Nydia,  with  a  sort  of  shiver,  and  she  awoke  me- 
chanically a  few  pleasing  notes  from  her  lyre;  the  sound  suited 
well  the  tranquillity  of  the  waters  and  the  sunny  stillness  of  the 
noon. 

"  Play  to  us,  dear  Nydia,"  said  Glaucus—"  play,  and  give  us 
one  of  thine  own  old  Thessalian  songs,  whether  it  be  of  magic  or 
not,  as  thou  wilt — let  it,  at  least,  be  of  love!" 

"  Of  love!"  repeated  Nydia,  raising  her  large,  wandering  eyes, 
that  ever  thrilled  those  who  saw  them  with  a  mingled  fear  and 
pity;  you  could  never  famiharize  yourself  to  the  aspect;  so  strange 
did  it  seem  that  those  dark,  wild  orbs  were  ignorant  of  the  day, 
and  either  so  fixed  was  their  deep  mysterious  gaze,  or  so  restless 
and  perturbed  their  glance,  that  you  felt,  when  you  encountered 
them,  that  same  vague  and  chilling  and  half  preternatural  im- 
pression, which  comes  over  you  in  the  presence  of  the  insane — of 
those  who  having  a  life  outwardly  like  your  own,  have  a  life 
within  life — dissimilar — unsearchable — un  guessed ! 

"  Will  you  that  I  should  sing  of  love?"  said  she,  fixing  those 
eyes  upon  Glaucus. 

"Yes,"  replied  he,  looking  down. 

She  moved  a  little  way  from  the  arm  of  lone,  still  cast  round 
her,  as  if  that  soft  embrace  embarrassed ;  and  placing  her  light 
graceful  instrument  on  her  knee,  after  a  short  prelude,  she  sang 
the  following  strain: 

NTDIA'S  LOVE  SONG. 

The  "Wind  and  the  Beam  loved  the  Rose, 

And  the  Rose  loved  one; 
For  who  recks  the  wind  where  it  blows? 

Or  loves  not  the  sun? 

None  know  whence  the  humble  wind  otolo. 
Poor  spirit  of  the  skies— 


lU        THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEH 

None  dreamt  that  the  wind  had  a  eonl 
In  its  mournful  sighs  1 

Oh,  happy  Beam!  how  can't  thou  proT* 

That  bright  love  of  thine? 
Im  thy  light  is  the  proof  of  thy  love, 

Thou  hast  but — to  shine  1 

How  its  love  can  the  Wind  revealf 

Unwelcome  its  sigh; 
Mute — mute  to  the  rose  let  it  steal — 

Its  proof  is— to  diel 

"Thou  singest  but  sadly,  sweet  girl,"  said  Glaucus;  "thy 
youth  only  feels  as  yet  the  dark  shadow  of  Love;  far  other  in- 
spiration doth  he  wake,  when  he  himself  bursts  and  brightens 
upon  us." 

"I  sing  as  I  was  taught,"  replied  Nydia,  sighing. 

**  Thy  master  was  love-crossed  then — try  thy  hand  at  a  gayer  air. 
Nay,  girl>  gi^e  tt^e  instrument  to  me."  As  Nydia  obeyed,  her 
hand  touched  his,  and  vvith  that  slight  touch,  her  breast  heaved — 
her  cheek  flushed.  lorie  and  Glaucus,  occupied  with  each  other, 
perceived  not  those  signs  of  strange  and  premature  emotions, 
which  preyed  upon  a  heart  that,  nourished  by  imagination,  dis- 
pensed with  hope. 

And  now,  broad,  blue,  bright  before  them,  spread  that  halcyon 
sea,  fair  as  at  this  moment,  seventeen  centuries  from  that  date,  I 
behold  it  rippling  on  the  same  divinest  shores.  Clime  that  yet 
enervates  with  a  soft  and  Circean  spell— that  molds  us  insensibly, 
mysteriouslv,  into  harmony  with  thyself,  banishing  the  thought 
of  austerer  labor,  the  voices  of  wild  ambition,  the  contests  and 
the  roar  of  life;  filling  us  with  gentle  and  subduing  dreams, 
making  necessary  to  our  nature  that  which  is  its  least  earthly  por- 
tion, so  that  the  very  air  inspires  us  with  a  yearning  and  thirst 
of  love!  Whoever  visits  thee  seems  to  leave  earth  and  its  harsh 
cares  behind — to  enter  by  the  Ivory  Gate  into  the  Land  of  Dreams. 
The  young  and  laughing  Hours  of  the  present — the  Hours, 
those  children  of  Saturn,  which  he  hungers  ever  to  devour,  seem 
snatched  from  his  grasp.  The  past — the  future — are  forgotten; 
we  enjoy  but  the  breatliing  time.  Flower  of  the  world^s  gar- 
den— Fountain  of  Delight — Italy  of  Italy — beautiful,  benign 
Campania! — vain  were,  indeed,  the  Titans,  if  on  this  spK)t  they  yet 
struggled  for  another  Heaven.  Here,  if  God  meant  this  working- 
day  life  for  a  perpetual  holiday,  who  would  not  sigh  to  dwell 
forever — asking  notning,  hoping  nothing,  fearing  nothiag,  while 
thy  skies  shine  over  him — while  thine  air  brought  him  sweet 
messages  from  the  violet  and  the  orange,  and  while  the  heart, 
resigned  to — beating  with — but  one  emotion,  could  find  the  lips 
and  the  eyes,  which  flatter  it  (vanity  of  vanities!)  that  love  can 
defy  custom,  and  be  eternal? 

It  was  then  in  this  clime,  on  these  shores,  that  the  Athenian 
gaaed  upon  a  face  that  might  have  suited  the  nymph,  the  spirit 
of  the  place;  feeding  his  eyes  on  the  changeful  ro86B  of  that  soft 


TEE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  115 

est  cheek,  happy  beyond  the  happiness  of  common  life,  loving 
and  knowing  himself  beloved. 

In  the  tale  of  the  human  passion,  in  past  ages,  there  is  some- 
thing of  interest  even  in  the  remoteness  of  the  time.  We  love  to 
feel  within  us  the  bond  which  unites  the  most  distant  eras — men, 
nations,  customs,  perish;  the  affections  are  immortal! — they 
are  the  sympathies  which  unite  the  ceaseless  generations.  The 
past  lives  again,  when  we  look  upon  its  emotions — it  lives 
in  our  own!  That  which  was,  ever  is!  The  magician's 
gift,  that  revives  the  dead — that  animates  the  dust  of  forgotten 
graves,  is  not  in  the  author's  skill — it  is  in  the  heart  of  the 
reader! 

Still  vainly  seeking  the  eyes  of  lone,  as  half  downcast,  half- 
averted,  they  shunned  his  own,  the  Athenian,  in  a  low  and  soft 
voice,  thus  expressed  the  feelings  inspired  by  happier  thoughts 
tlian  those  winch  had  colored  the  song  of  Nydia. 

THE  SONG  OF  GLAUCUS. 

As  the  bark  floateth  on  o'er  the  summer-lit  sea, 
Floats  my  heart  o'er  the  deeps  of  its  passion  for  thee; 
All  lost  in  the  space,  without  terror  it  glides, 
For  bright  with  thy  soul  is  the  face  of  the  tides. 
Now  heaving,  now  hush'd,  is  that  passionate  ocean, 

As  it  catches  thy  smile  or  thy  sighs; 
And  the  twin-stars*  that  shine  on  the  wanderer's  devotion. 

Its  guide  and  its  god— are  thine  eyes! 

The  bark  may  go  down,  should  the  cloud  sweep  above, 

For  its  being  is  bound  to  the  light  of  thy  love. 

As  thy  face  and  thy  smile  are  its  life  and  its  joy, 

So  thy  frown  or  thy  change  are  the  storms  that  destroy: 

Ah!  sweeter  to  sink  while  the  sky  Is  serene. 

If  tim»  hath  a  change  for  thy  heart! 
If  to  live  be  to  weep  over  what  thou  hast  been, 

Let  me  die  while  I  know  what  thou  art!" 

^s  the  last  words  of  the  song  trembled  over  the  sea,  lone 
I  wised  her  looks — they  met  those  of  her  lover.  Happy  Nydia! 
— happy  in  thy  aflfliction,  that  thou  couldst  not  see  that  fascinated 
and  charmed  gaze,  that  said  so  much — that  made  the  eye  the 
voice  of  the  soul — that  promised  the  impossibiUty  of  change! 

But,  though  the  Thessalian  could  not  detect  that  gaze,  she 
divined  its  meaning  by  their  silence — by  their  sighs.  She  pressed 
her  hands  tightly  across  her  breast,  as  if  to  keep  down  its  bitter 
and  jealous  thoughts;  and  then  she  hastened  to  speak — for  that 
silence  was  intolerable  to  her. 

"  After  all,  O  Glaucus!"  said  she,  "  there  is  nothing  very  mirth- 
ful in  your  strain!" 

"Yet  I  meant  it  to  be  so,  when  I  took  up  the  lyre,  pretty  one. 
Perhaps  happiness  will  not  permit  us  to  be  mirthful." 

'*  How  strange  is  it,"  said  lone,  changing  a  conversation  which 
oppressed  her  while  it  charmed — "  that  for  the  last  several  days 

*  In  allusion  to  the  Dioscuri,  or  twin-stars,  the  guardian  deity  of  the 
seamen. 


116  TEE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIL 

yonder  cloud  has  hung  motionless  over  Vesuvius!  Yet  not  In- 
deed motionless,  for  sometimes  it  changes  its  form;  and  now 
methinks  it  looks  like  some  vast  giant,  with  an  arm  out- 
stretched over  the  city.  Dost  thou  see  likeness — or  is  it  only  to 
my  fancy?" 

"Fair  lonel  I  see  it  also.  It  is  astonishingly  distinct.  The 
giant  seems  seated  on  the  brow  of  the  mountain,  the  different 
•hades  of  the  cloud  appear  to  form  a  white  robe  that  sweeps  over 
its  vast  breast  and  nmbs;  it  seems  to  gaze  with  a  steady  face 
upon  the  city  below,  to  point  with  one  hand,  as  thou  sayest,  over 
its  glittering  streets,  and  to  raise  the  other  (dost  thou  note  it?) 
toward  the  higher  heaven.  It  is  like  the  ghost  of  some  huge 
Titan  brooding  over  the  beautiful  world  he  lost;  sorrowful  for  the 
past — yet  with  something  of  menace  for  the  future." 

*'  Could  that  mountain  have  any  connection  with  the  last 
night's  earthquake?  They  say  that,  ages  ago,  almost  in  the  earli- 
est era  of  tradition,  it  gave  forth  fires  as  ^tna  still.  Perhaps  the 
flames  yet  lurk  and  dart  beneath." 

'*  It  is  possible,"  said  Glaucus,  musingly. 

'^*  Thou  sayest  thou  art  slow  to  believe  in  magic?"  said  Nydia 
suddenly.  "I  have  heard  that  a  potent  witch  dwells  among  the 
scorched  caverns  of  the  mountain,  and  yon  cloud  may  be  the  dim 
shadow  of  the  demon  she  confers  with." 

*'  Thou  art  full  of  the  romance  of  thy  native  Thessaly,"  said 
Glaucus;  "and  a  strange  mixture  of  sense  and  all  conflicting 
superstition." 

*'  "We  are  ever  superstitious  in  the  dark,"  replied  Nydia.  "  Tell 
me,"  she  added,  after  a  slight  pause,  "tell  me,  O  Glaucus!  do  all 
that  are  beautiful  resemble  each  other?  They  say  you  are  beauti- 
ful, and  lone  also.  Are  your  faces  the  same?  I  fancy  not,  yet  it 
ought  to  be  so!" 

"Fancy  no  such  grievous  wrong  to  lone."  answered  Glaucus, 
laughing.  "But  we  do  not,  alas!  resemble  each  other,  as  the 
homely  and  beautiful  sometimes  do.  lone's  hair  is  dark,  mine 
light;  lone's  eyes  are — what  color,  lone?  I  cannot  see,  turn  them 
to  me.  Oh,  are  they  black?  no,  they  are  too  soft.  Are  they  blue? 
no,  they  are  too  deep;  they  change  with  every  ray  of  the  sun — 1 
know  not  their  color;  but  mine,  sweet  Nydia,  are  gray,  and  bright 
only  when  lone  shines  on  them!  lone's  cheek  is " 

"  I  do  not  understand  one  word  of  thy  description."  inter- 
rupted Nydia,  peevishly.  "  I  comprehend  only  that  you  do  not 
resemble  each  other,  and  I  am  glad  of  it." 

"Why,  Nydia?"  said  lone. 

Nydia  colored  slightly.  "Because,"  she  replied  coldly,  "I 
have  always  imagined  you  under  different  forms,  and  one  likes 
to  know  one  is  right,  you  knc^v." 

"  And  what  hast  thou  imagined  Glaucus  to  resemble?'  said 
lone,  softly. 

"  Music!"  rephed  Nydia,  looking  down. 

**  Thou  art  right,"  thought  lone. 

**  And  what  likeness  hast  thou  ascribed  to  lone?" 

**  I  cannot  tell  yet,"  answered  the  blmd  girl;  "  I  have  not  yei 


THE  LAST  DATS  OP  POMPEII  lit 

known  her  long  enough  to  find  a  shape  and  sign  for  my 
guesses. " 

"I  will  tell  thee,  then,"  said  Glaucus,  passionately:  "she  is 
like  the  sun  that  warms— hke  tiie  wave  that  refreshes." 

'•The  sun  sometimes  scorches,  and  the  wave  sometimes 
drowns,"  answered  Nydia. 

"  Take,  then,  these  roses,"  said  Glaucus;  "  let  their  fragrance 
suggest  lone." 

"  Alas,  the  roses  will  fade,"  said  the  Neapolitan,  with  a  sigh. 

Thus  conversing,  they  wore  away  the  hours:  the  lovers,  con- 
scious only  of  the  brightness  and  smiles  of  love;  the  blind  girl 
feehng  only  its  darkness— its  tortures— the  fierceness  of  jealousy 
and  all  its  woe! 

And  now,  as  they  drifted  on,  Glaucus  once  more  resumed  the 
lyre,  and  woke  its  strings  with  a  careless  hand  to  a  strain  so 
wildly  beautiful  that  even  Nydia  was  aroused  from  her  reverie, 
and  uttered  a  cry  of  admiration. 

"Thou  seest,  my  child,"  cried  Glaucus,  ''that  I  can  yet  re- 
deem the  character  of  love's  music,  and  that  I  was  wrong  in  say- 
ing happiness  could  not  be  gay.  Listen,  Nydia  I  listen,  dear 
lone  I  and  hear: 

THE  BIRTH  OF  LOVE.* 

I. 

Like  a  Star  in  the  seas  above, 

Like  a  Dream  to  the  waves  of  sleep, 

Up— up — THE  INCAKNATE  LOVE— 

She  rose  from  the  charmed  deepi 
And  over  the  Cyprian  Isle 
The  skies  shed  their  silent  smile; 
And  the  Forest's  green  heart  was  rife 
With  the  stir  of  the  gushing  life — 
The  life  that  had  leap'd  to  birth, 
In  the  veins  of  the  happy  earth! 
Hail!  oh,  hail! 
The  dimmest  sea-cave  below  thee, 

The  farthest  sky-arch  above, 
In  their  innermost  stillness  know  thee, 

And  heave  with  the  Birth  of  Love. 
Gale!  soft  Gale! 
Thou  comest  on  thy  silver  winglets, 

From  thy  home  in  the  tender  west;  f 
Now  fanning  her  golden  ringlets, 

Now  hush'd  on  her  heaving  breast. 
And  afar  on  the  murmm-ing  sand. 
The  Seasons  shall  wait  hand  in  hand 
To  welcome  thee,  Birth  Divine, 
To  the  earth  which  is  henceforth  thine. 

II. 

Behold!  how  she  kneels  in  the  shell. 


*  Suggested  by  a  picture  of  Venus  rising  from  the  sea  taken  from  Pom- 
peii, and  now  in  the  Museum  of  Naples. 

t  According  to  the  ancient  mythologists.  Venus  rose  from  the  sea 
near  Cyprus,  to  which  island  she  was  wafted  by  the  Zephyrs.  The  sea- 
«ons  waited  to  welcome  her  on  the  searshore. 


118  THE  LAST  DATS  OF  POMPEII. 

Bright  pearl  in  its  floating  cell! 
Behold  I  how  the  .shell's  rose-hues, 

The  cheek  and  the  breast  of  snow, 
And  the  delicate  limbs  sjiflfuse 

Like  a  blush,  with  a  bashful  glow. 
Sailing  on,  slowly  sailing 

O'er  the  wild  water: 
Ml  hail!  as  the  fond  light  is  hailing 

Her  daughter 

All  hail  I 
We  are  thine,  all  thine  evermore; 
Not  a  leaf  on  the  laughing  shore, 
Not  a  wave  on  the  heaving  sea, 

Nor  a  single  sigh 

In  the  boundless  sky, 
But  is  vow'd  evermore  to  theel 

III. 

And  thou,  my  beloved  one — then, 
As  I  gaze  on  thy  soft  eyes  now 
Methinks  from  their  depths  I  view 
The  Holy  Birth  born  anew; 
Thy  lids  are  the  gentle  cell 

Where  the  young  Love,  blushing,  lies; 
Seel  she  breaks  from  the  mystic  shell. 

She  comes  from  the  tender  eyesl 
Hail!  all  hail! 
She  comes,  as  she  came  from  the  sea, 
To  my  soul  as  it  looks  on  thee; 

She  comes,  she  comes! 
She  comes,  as  she  came  from  the  sea, 
To  my  soul  as  it  looks  on  thee! 
Hail!  all  haill 

CHAPTER  nX 

THE  CONGREGATION. 

Followed  by  Apaecides,  the  Nazarene  gained  the  side  of  the 
Samus — that  nver,  which  now  has  shrunk  into  a  petty  stream, 
then  rushed  gayly  into  the  sea,  covered  with  countless  vessels, 
and  reflecting  on  its  waves  the  gardens,  tlie  vines,  the  palacea 
and  the  temples  of  Pompeii.  From  its  more  noisy  and  frequent- 
ed banks,  OUnthus  directed  his  steps  to  a  path  which  ran  amid  a 
shady  vista  of  trees,  at  the  distance  of  a  few  paces  from  the  river. 
This  walk  was  in  the  evening  a  favorite  resort  of  the  Pompeians, 
but  during  the  heat  and  business  of  the  day  was  seldom  visited 
save  by  some  groups  of  playful  children,  some  meditative  poet, 
or  some  disputative  philosophers.  At  the  side  farthest  from  the 
river,  frequent  copses  of  box  interspersed  the  more  delicate  and 
evanescent  foliage,  and  these  were  cut  into  a  thousand  quaint 
shapes,  sometimes  into  the  forms  of  fauns  and  satyrs,  sometimes 
into  the  mimicry  of  Egyptian  pyramids,  sometimes  into  the  let- 
ters that  composed  the  name  of  a  popular  or  eminent  citizen. 
Thus  the  false  ta.ste  is  equally  ancient  as  the  pure;  and  the  retired 
traders  of  Hackney  and  Paddington,  a  centurv  ago,  were  little 
twar«,  perhaps,  tiiat  in  their  tortured  yews  and  sculptured  bos 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIt  119 

they  found  their  models  in  the  most  polished  period  of  Ro- 
man antiquity,  in  the  gardens  of  Pompeii,  and  the  villas  of  the 
fastidious  Pliny. 

This  walk  now,  as  the  noonday  sun  shone  perpendicularly 
through  the  checkered  leaves,  was  entirely  deserted;  at  least  no 
other  forms  than  those  of  Olinthus  and  the  priest  infringed  upon 
the  sohtude.  They  sat  themselves  on  one  of  the  benches,  placed 
at  intervals  between  the  trees,  and  facing  the  faint  breeze  that 
came  languidly  from  the  river,  whose  waves  danced  and  sparkled 
before  them— a  smgular  and  contrasted  pair;  the  believer  in  the 
latest— the  pnest  of  the  most  ancient— worsliip  of  the  world' 

''  Since  thou  leftst  me  so  abruptly,"  said  Olinthus,  ''hast  thou 
been  happy?  has  thy  heart  found  contentment  under  these  priest- 
ly robes?  hast  thou,  still  yearning  for  the  voice  of  God,  heard  it 
whisper  comfort  to  thee  from  the  oracles  of  Isis?  That  sigh,  that 
averted  countenance,  give  me  the  answer  my  soul  predicted." 

♦'Alas!"  answered  Apsecldes,  sadly,  "thou  seest  before  thee  a 
wretched  and  distracted  man!  From  my  childhood  upward  I 
have  idolized^  the  dreams  of  virtue.  I  have  envied  the  hoHness 
of  men  who,  in  caves  and  lonely  temples,  have  been  admitted  to 
companionship  of  beings  above  the  world;  my  days  have  been 
consumed  with  feverish  and  vague  desires,  my  nights  with  mock- 
mg  but  solemn  visions.  Seduced  by  the  mystic  prophecies  of  an 
impostor,  I  have  indued  these  robes— my  nature  (1  confess  it  to 
thee  frankly)— my  nature  has  revolted  at  what  I  have  seen  and 
been  doomed  to  share  in!  Searching  after  truth,  I  have  become 
but  the  minister  of  falsehoods.    On  tne  evening  in  which  we  last 


^,         .,  perjury  and  sin  to  rashness  and  to 

sorrow.  The  veil  is  now  rent  from  my  eyes;  I  behold  a  villain 
where  I  obeyed  a  demigod;  the  earth  darkens  in  my  sight;  I  am 
in  the  deepest  abyss  of  gloom;  I  know  not  if  there  be  gods  above; 
if  we  are  the  things  of  chance;  if  beyond  the  bounded  and  mel- 
ancholv  present  there  is  annihilation  or  a  hereafter— tell  me, 
then,  thy  faith;  solve  me  these  doubts,  if  thou  hast  indeed  the 
power  I" 

**I  do  not  marvel,"  answered  the  Nazarene,  *' that  thou  hast 
thus  erred,  or  that  thou  art  thus  skeptic.  Eighty  years  ago  there 
was  no  assurance  to  man  of  God,  or  of  a  certain  and  definite  fu- 
ture beyond  the  grave.  New  laws  are  declared  to  him  who  has 
ears— a  heaven,  a  tme  Olympus,  is  revealed  to  him  who  has  eyes 
—heed,  then,  and  listen." 

And  with  all  the  earnestness  of  a  man  beHeving  ardently  him- 
self, and  zealous  to  convert,  the  Nazarene  poured  forth  to  Apse- 
cides  the  assurances  of  Scriptural  promise.  He  spoke  first  of  the 
sufferings  and  miracles  of  Christ— he  wept  as  bespoke;  he  turned 
next  to  the  glories  of  the  Saviour's  ascension— to  the  clear  pre- 
dictions of  Revelation.  He  described  that  pure  and  unsensual 
heaven  destined  to  the  virtuous— those  fires  and  torments  that 
were  the  doom  of  guilt. 

The  doubts  which  spring  up  to  the  minds  of  later  reasoners, 
m  the  immensity  of  the  sacrifice  of  Qod  to  man,  were  oot 


120  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

such  as  would  occur  to  an  early  heathen.  He  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  believe  that  the  gods  had  lived  upon  earth,  and  taken 
upon  themselves  the  forms  of  men;  had  shared  in  human  pas- 
sions, in  human  labors,  and  in  hmnan  misfortunes.  What  was 
the  travail  of  his  own  Alcmaena's  son,  whose  altars  now  smoked 
with  the  incense  of  countless  cities,  but  a  toil  for  the  human  race. 
Had  not  the  great  Dorian  Apollo  expiated  a  mystic  sin  by  descend- 
ing to  the  grave?  Those  who  were  the  deities  of  heaven  had 
been  the  law-givers  or  benefactors  on  eai'th,  and  gratitude  had 
led  to  worship.  It  seemed  therefore,  to  the  heathen,  a  doctrine 
neither  new  nor  strange,  that  Christ  had  been  sent  from  heaven, 
that  an  immortal  had  indued  mortality,  and  tasted  the  bitterness 
after  death.  And  the  end  for  which  He  thus  toiled  and  thus 
suffered — how  far  more  glorious  did  it  seem  to  Apaecides  than 
that  for  which  the  deities  of  old  had  visited  the  nether  world,  and 
passed  tlirough  the  gates  of  death!  Was  it  not  worthy  of  a  God 
to  descend  to  these  dim  vaUeys,  in  order  to  clear  up  the  clouds 
gathered  over  the  dark  mount  beyond — to  satisfy  the  doubts  of 
sages — to  convert  speculation  into  certainty — by  example  to  point 
out  the  rules  of  life — by  revelation  to  solve  the  enigma  of  the 
grave — and  to  prove  that  the  soul  did  not  yearn  in  vain  when  it 
dreamed  of  an  immortality  ?  In  this  last  was  the  great  argument 
of  those  lowly  men  destined  to  convert  the  earth.  As  notliing 
is  more  flattering  to  the  pride  and  the  hopes  of  man  than  the 
belief  in  a  future  state,  so  nothing  could  be  more  vague  and  con- 
fused than  the  notions  of  the  heathen  sages  upon  the  mystic 
subject.  Apaecides  had  already  learned  that  the  faith  of  the 
philosophers  was  not  that  of  the  herd;  that  if  they  secretly  pro- 
fessed a  creed  in  some  diviner  power,  it  was  not  the  creed  which 
they  thought  it  wise  to  impart  to  the  community.  He  had 
already  learned,  that  even  the  priest  ridiculed  what  he  preached 
to  the  people — that  the  notions  of  the  few  and  the  many  were 
never  united.  But,  in  this  new  faith,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
philosopher,  priest  and  people,  the  expounders  of  the  religion 
and  its  followers,  were  alike  accordant:  they  did  not  speculate 
and  debate  upon  immortality,  they  spoke  of  it  as  a  thing  certain 
and  assured;  the  magnificence  of  the  promise  dazzled  him — its 
consolations  soothed.  For  the  Cliristian  faith  made  its  early 
converts  among  sinners!  may  of  its  fathers  and  its  martyrs  were 
those  who  had  felt  the  bitterness  of  vice,  and  who  were  therefore 
no  longer  tempted  by  its  false  aspect  from  the  paths  of  an  austere 
and  uncompromising  virtue.  All  the  assui'ances  of  this  heahng 
faith  invited  to  repentance — they  were  peculiarly  adapted  to  the 
bruised  and  sore  in  spirit;  the  very  remorse  which  Apaecides  felt 
for  his  late  excesses,  made  him  incline  to  one  who  found  holiness 
in  that  remorse,  and  who  whispered  of  the  joy  in  Heaven  over 
one  sinner  that  repenteth. 

"Come,"  said  the  Nazarene,  as  he  perceived  the  effect  he  had 
produced,  "  come  to  the  humble  hall  in  which  we  meet — a  selec 
and  a  chosen  few;  listen  there  to  our  prayers;  note  the  sincerity 
of  our  repentant  tears;  mingle  m  our  simple  sacrifice — not  of 
victims,  nor  of  garlands,  Imt  offered  by  wliite-robed  thought, 
upon  the  altar  of  the  heart.    The  flowei*s  that  we  lay  there  are 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  191 

imperisliable — they  bloom  over  us  when  we  are  no  more;  nay, 
they  accompany  us  beyond  the  grave,  they  spring  up  beneath  our 
feet  in  Heaven,  they  delight  us  with  an  eternal  odor,  for  they  are 
of  the  soul,  they  partake  of  its  nature;  these  offerings  are 
temptations  overcome,  and  sins  repented.  Come,  oh,  come!  lose 
not  another  moment;  prepare  already  for  the  great,  the  awful 
journey,  from  darkness  to  hght,  from  sorrow  to  bliss,  from 
corruption  to  immortaUty!  This  is  the  day  of  the  Lord  the  Son, 
a  day  that  we  have  set  apart  for  our  devotions.  Though  we  meet 
usually  at  night,  yet  some  among  us  are  gathered  together  even 
now.  What  joy,  what  triumph,  will  be  with  us  all,  if  we  can 
hi-ing  one  stray  lamb  int<:"  the  sacred  fold!" 

There  seemed  to  Apseoides,  so  naturally  pure  of  heart,  some- 
thing ineffably  generous  and  benign  in  that  spirit  of  conversion 
which  animated  Olinthus — a  spirit  that  found  its  own  bliss  in  the 
happiness  of  others— that  sought  in  its  wide  sociality  to  make 
companions  for  eternity.  He  was  touched,  softened,  and  subdued. 
He  was  not  in  that  mood  which  can  bear  to  be  left  alone;  curiosity, 
too,  mingled  with  his  purer  stimulants — he  was  anxious  to  see 
those  rites  of  which  so  many  dark  and  contradictory  rumors  were 
afloat.  He  paused  a  moment,  looked  over  his  garb,  thought  of 
Arbaces,  shuddered  with  horror,  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  broad  brow 
of  the  Nazarene,  intent,  anxious,  watchful — but  for  liis  benefit, 
for  his  salvation!  He  drew  his  cloak  round  him,  so  as  wholly  to 
cx)nceal  his  robes,  and  said,  *'  Lead  on,  I  follow  thee." 

Olinthus  pressed  his  hands  joyfully,  and  then  descended  to  the 
river  side,  hailed  one  of  the  boats  that  phed  there  constantly; 
they  entered  it;  an  awning  overhead,  whUe  it  sheltered  them  from 
the  sun,  screened  also  their  persons  from  observation;  they 
rapidly  skimmed  the  wave.  From  one  of  the  boats  that  passed 
them  floated  a  soft  music,  and  its  prow  was  decorated  with 
flowers — it  was  ghding  toward  the  sea. 

"  So,"  said  Olinthus,  sadly,  "unconscious  and  mirthful  in  their 
delusions,  sail  the  votaries  of  luxmy  into  the  great  ocean  of 
storm  and  shipwreck;  we  pass  them,  silent  and  unnoticed,  to 
gain  the  land." 

Apaecides,  lifting  his  eyes,  caught  through  the  aperture  in  the 
awning  a  glimpse  of  the  face  of  one  of  the  inmates  of  that  gay 
bark — it  was  the  face  of  lone.  The  lovers  were  embarked  on  th« 
excursion  at  which  we  have  been  made  present.  The  priest 
sighed,  and  once  more  sank  back  upon  his  seat.  They  reached 
the  shore  where,  in  the  suburbs,  an  alley  of  small  and  mean 
houses  stretched  toward  the  bank;  they  dismissed  the  boat, 
landed,  and  Olinthus,  preceding  the  priest,  tlireaded  the  labyrinth 
of  lanes,  and  arrived  at  last  at  the  closed  door  of  a  habitation 
somewhat  larger  than  its  neighbors.  He  knocked  thrice — the 
door  was  opened  and  closed  again,  as  ApsBcides  followed  his  guide 
across  the  threshold. 

They  passed  a  deserted  ati'ium,  and  gained  an  inner  chamber 
of  moderate  size,  which,  when  the  door  was  closed,  received  its 
only  light  from  a  small  window  cut  over  the|^door  itself.  But, 
halting  at  the  threshold  of  this  chamber,  and  knocking  at  the 
<Joor,  OUnthus  said:    "  Peace  be  ^vi^  j^oul"    A  voice  from  with- 


lift  THE  LAST  DA  T8  OF  POMPEII. 

in  returned:  "Peace  u-ith  whom?"  *'  The  Faithful  I"  answered 
Olinthus,  and  the  door  opened;  twelve  or  fourteen  persons  were 
eitting  in  a  semicircle,  silent,  and  seemingly  absorbed  in  thought, 
and  opposite  to  a  crucifix  rudely  carved  in  wood. 

They  lifted  up  their  eyes  when  Olinthus  entered,  without 
speaking;  the  Nazerine  himself  before  he  accosted  them,  knelt 
suddenly  down,  and  by  his  moving  lips,  and  his  eyes  fixed  stead- 
fastly on  the  crucifix,  Apaecides  saw  that  he  prajed  inly.  This 
rite  performed,  Olinthus  turned  to  the  congregation.  "  Men  and 
brethren,"  said  he,  "  start  not  to  behold  among  you  a  priest  of 
Isis;  he  hath  sojourned  mth  the  blind,  but  the  Spirit  has  fallen 
on  him— he  desires  to  see,  to  hear,  and  to  understand." 

"  Let  him,"  said  one  of  the  assembly;  and  Apsecides  beheld  in 
the  speaker  a  man  still  younger  than  himself,  of  a  countenance 
equally  worn  and  palid,  of  an  eye  which  equally  spoke  of  the 
restless  and  fiery  operations  of  a  working  nimd. 

"Let  him,"  repeated  a  second  voice,  and  he  who  thus  spoke 
was  in  the  prime  of  manhood;  his  bronzed  skin  and  Asiatic  feat- 
ures bespoke  him  a  son  of  Syria— he  had  been  a  robber  in  his 
youth. 

"  Let  him,"  said  a  third  voice;  and  the  priest  turning  to  regard 
the  speaker,  saw  an  old  man  with  a  long,  gray  beard,  whom  he 
recognized  as  a  slave  to  the  wealthy  Diomed. 

'*  Let  him,"  repeated  simultaneously  the  rest — men  who,  with 
two  exceptions,  were  evidently  of  the  inferior  ranks.  In  these 
exceptions,  Apeecides  noted  an  officer  of  the  guard,  and  an 
Alexandrian  merchant. 

"  We  do  not,"  recommenced  Olinthus — "  we  do  not  bind  you 
to  secresy;  we  impose  on  you  no  oaths  (as  some  of  our  weaker 
brethren  would  do)  not  to  betray  us.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that 
there  is  no  absolute  law  against  us;  but  the  multitude,  more  sav- 
age than  their  rulers,  thirst  for  our  lives.  So,  my  friends,  when 
Pilate  would  have  hesitated,  it  waa  the  people  who  shouted 
'  Christ  to  the  cross!'  But  we  bind  you  not  to  our  safety— no  I 
Betray  us  to  the  crowd— impeach,  calumniate,  malign  us  if  you 
will— we  are  above  death,  we  should  walk  cheerfully  to  the  den 
of  the  lion,  or  the  rack  of  the  torturer — we  can  trample  down 
the  darkness  of  the  grave,  and  what  is  death  to  a  criminal  is  eter- 
nity to  the  Christian." 

A  low  and  applauding  murmur  ran  through  the  assembly. 

"  Thou  comcst  among  us  as  an  examiner,  mayest  thou  remain 
a  convert!  Our  religion?  you  behold  it!  Yon  cross  our  sole  im- 
age, yon  scroll  the  mysteries  of  our  Caere  and  Eleusis!  Our  mor- 
ality? It  is  in  our  Uves!  Sinnei-s  we  have  all  been;  who  now 
can  accuse  us  of  a  crime?  we  have  baptised  ourselves  from  the 
past.  Think  not  that  this  is  of  us,  it  is  of  God.  Approach,  Me- 
don,^  beckoning  to  the  old  slave  who  had  spoken  third  for  the 
admission  of  Apaecides,  "  thou  art  the  sole  man  among  us  who 
is  not  free.  But  in  heaven,  the  last  shall  be  first;  so  with  us. 
Unfold  your  scroll,  read  and  explain." 

Useless  wouldit  be  for  us  to  accompany  the  lecture  of  Medon,  or 
the  comments  of  tlie  congregation.  Familiar  now  are  those  doc- 
trines, then  strange  and  pew.     Eighteen  centuries  have  left  ug 


THE  LAST  DA  18  OF  POMPEIt  123 

Mttle  to  expound  upon  the  lore  of  Scripture  or  the  life  of  Christ. 
To  us,  too,  there  would  seem  httle  congenial  in  the 
doubts  that  occurred  to  a  heathen  priest,  and  little  learned  in  the 
answers  they  received  from  men  uneducated,  rude,  and  simple, 
possessing  only  the  knowledge  that  they  were  greater  than  they 
seemed. 

There  was  one  thing  that  greatly  touched  the  NeapoUtan;  when 
the  lecture  was  concluded,  they  heard  a  very  gentle  knock  at  th© 
door;  the  password  was  given,  and  replied  to;  the  door  opened, 
and  two  young  children,  the  eldest  of  whom  might  have  told  its 
seventh  year,  entered  timidly ;  they  were  the  children  of  the  mas- 
ter of  the  house,  that  dark  and  hard  Syrian,  whose  youth  had 
been  spent  in  pillage  and  bloodshed.  The  eldest  of  the  congrega- 
tion (it  was  that  old  slave)  opened  to  them  his  arms;  they  fled  to 
the  shelter— they  crept  to  his  breast— and  his  hard  features 
smiled  as  he  caressed  them.  And  then  these  bold  and  fervent 
men,  nursed  in  vicissitude,  beaten  by  the  rough  winds  of  life — 
men  of  mailed  and  impervious  fortitude,  ready  to  affront  a  world, 
prepared  for  torment  and  armed  for  death— men,  who  presented 
all  imaginable  contrast  to  weak  nerves,  the  light  hearts,  the  ten- 
der fragility  of  cliildhood,  crowded  round  the  infants,  smoothing 
their  rugged  brows  and  composing  their  bearded  lips  to  kindly 
and  fost«uig  smiles;  and  then  the  old  man  opened  the  scroll, 
and  he  tRTlght  the  infants  to  repeat  after  mm  that  beautiful 
prayer  that  we  still  dedicate  to  the  Lord,  and  still  teach  to  our 
children;  and  then  he  told  them,  in  simple  phrase,  of  God's  love 
to  the  young,  and  how  not  a  sparrow  falls  without  His  eye  sees  it. 
This  lovely  custom  of  infant  initiation  was  long  cherished  by  the 
early  Church,  in  memory  of  the  words  which  said,  "  Suffer  little 
children  to  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not;"  and  was  perhaps 
the  origin  of  the  calumny  which  ascribed  to  the  Nazarenes  the 
the  crime  which  the  Nazarene,  when  victorious,  attributed  to  the 
Jew,  viz.,  the  decoying  children  to  hideous  rites,  at  which  they 
were  secretly  immolated. 

And  the  stern  paternal  penitent  seemed  to  feel  in  the  innocence 
of  his  children  a  retm-n  into  early  life— life  ere  yet  it  sinned;  he 
followed  the  motion  of  their  young  hps  with  an  earnest  gaze;  he 
smiled  as  they  repeated,  with  hushed  and  reverent  looks,  the  holy- 
words;  and  when  the  lesson  was  done,  and  they  ran,  released, 
and  gladly  to  his  knee,  he  clasped  them  to  liis  breast,  kissed  them 
again  and  again,  and  tears  flowed  fast  down  his  cheek— tears,  of 
which  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  trace  the  source,  so  mingled 
were  they  with  joy  and  sorrow,  penitence  and  hope — ^remorse 
for  himself  and  love  for  them  I 

Something,  I  say,  there  was  in  this  scene  which  peculiarly 
affected  Apsecides;  and,  in  truth,  it  is  diflacult  to  conceive  a  cer- 
emony more  appropriate  to  the  religion  of  benevolence,  more 
appealing  to  the  household  and  every-day  affections,  striking  a 
more  sensitive  chord  in  the  human  breast. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  an  inner  door  opened  gently,  and  a 
very  old  man  entered  the  chamber,  leaning  on  a  staff.  At  his 
presence  the  whole  congregation  rose;  there  was  an  expression 
of  deep,  affectionate  respect  upon  every  countenance;  and  Apa^- 


114  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPBTT. 

cides,  gazing  on  his  countenance,  felt  attracted  toward  him  by 
an  irresistible  sympathy.  No  man  ever  looked  upon  that  face 
without  love;  for  there  had  dwelt  the  smile  of  the  Deity,  the 
incaruation  of  divinest  love;  and  the  glory  of  the  smile  had  never 
passed  awav. 

"  My  children,  God  be  with  you  1"  said  the  old  man,  stretching 
his  arms;  and  as  he  spoke  the  infants  ran  to  his  knee.  He  sat 
down,  and  they  nestled  fondly  to  his  bosom.  It  was  beautiful  to 
see  that  mingling  of  the  extremes  of  life— the  rivers  gushing 
from  their  early  source — the  majestic  stream  gliding  to  the  ocean 
of  eternity  I  As  the  light  of  declining  day  seems  to  mingle  earth 
and  heaven,  making  the  outline  of  each  scarce  visible,  and  blend- 
ing the  harsh  mountain-tops  with  the  sky,  even  so  did  the  smili^ 
of  that  benign  old  age  appear  to  hallow  the  aspect  of  tho^ 
around,  to  blend  together  the  strong  distinctions  of  varying 
years,  and  to  diffuse  over  infancy  and  manhood  the  light  of  that 
heaven  into  wliich  it  must  so  soon  vanish  and  be  lost. 

"  Father,"  said  Olintlius,  "thou  on  whose  form  the  miracle  of 
the  Redeemer  worked;  thou  who  wert  snatched  from  the  grave  to 
become  the  living  witness  of  His  mercy  and  His  power;  behold  I 
a  danger  in  our  meeting — a  new  lamb  gathered  to  the  fold!" 

"Let  me  bless  him,"  said  the  old  man;  the  throng  gave  way. 
Apaecides  approached  him  as  by  an  instinct;  he  fell  on  his  knees 
before  him — the  old  man  laid  liis  hand  on  the  priest's  head,  and 
blessed  him,  but  not  aloud.  As  his  lips  moved,  his  eyes  were 
upturned,  and  tears — those  tears  that  good  men  only  shed  in 
the  hope  of  happiness  to  another — flowed  fast  down  his  cheeks. 

The  children  were  on  either  side  of  the  convert;  his  heart  was 
theirs— he  had  become  as  one  of  them— to  enter  into  the  kingdom 
of  Heaven. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  STREAM  OF  LOVE  RUNS  ON.— WHITHER? 

Days  are  like  years  in  the  love  of  the  young,  w^hen  no  bar,  no 
obstacle,  is  between  their  hearts — when  the  sun  shines,  and  the 
course  runs  smooth — when  their  love  is  prosperous  and  confess- 
ed, lone  no  longer  concealed  from  Glaucus  the  attacliment  she 
felt  for  him,  and  their  talk  now  was  only  of  their  love.  Over 
the  rapture  of  the  present,  the  ho])es  of  the  future  glowed  like 
the  heaven  above  the  gardens  of  spring.  They  went  in  their 
trustful  thoughts  far  down  the  stream  of  time;  they  laid  out  the 
chart  of  their  destiny  to  come;  they  suffered  the  light  of  to-day 
to  suffuse  the  morrow.  In  the  youth  of  their  hearts  it  seemed  as 
if  care,  and  change,  and  death,  were  as  things  unknown.  Per- 
haps they  loved  each  other  the  more  because  the  condition  of 
the  world  left  Glaucus  no  aim  and  no  wish  but  love;  because  the 
distractions  common  in  free  states  to  men's  affection  existed  not 
for  the  Athenian ;  liecause  his  country  wooed  him  net  to  the  bustle 
of  civil  Ufe;  because  ambition  fumislied  no  coimterpoise  to  love; 
and,  therefore,  over  their  schemes  and  their  projects,  love  only 
reigned.  In  the  iron  age  they  imagined  themselves  of  the  gold 
en,  doomed  only  to  hve  and  to  lore.  .     . .  _         _- 


THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII.  125 

To  the  superficial  observer,  who  interests  himself  only  in  cliar- 
acters  strongly  marked  and  broadly  colored,  both  the  lovers  may 
seem  of  too  slight  and  commonplace  a  mold:  in  the  delineation 
of  characters  purposely  subdued  the  reader  sometimes  imagines 
that  there  is  a  want  of  character;  perhaps,  indeed,  I  wrong  the 
real  nature  of  these  two  lovers  by  not  painting  more  impressive- 
ly their  stronger  individualities.  But  in  dwelling  so  much  on 
their  bright  and  bird-like  existence,  I  am  influenced  almost  in- 
sensibly by  the  forethought  of  tiie  changes  that  await  them,  and 
for  which  they  were  so  ill-prepared.  It  was  this  very  softness 
and  gayety  of  life  that  contrasted  most  strongly  the  vicissitudes  of 
their  coming  fate.  For  the  oak  without  fruit  or  blossom,  whose 
hard  and  rugged  heart  is  fitted  for  the  storm,  there  is  less  fear 
than  for  the  delicate  branches  of  the  myrtle,  and  the  laughing 
clusters  of  the  vine. 

They  had  now  advanced  far  into  August — the  next  month 
their  marriage  was  fixed,  and  the  threshold  of  Glaucus  was  al- 
ready wreathed  in  garlands;  and  nightly,  by  the  door  of  lone,  he 
poured  forth  the  rich  libations.  He  existed  no  longer  for  his 
gay  companions;  he  was  ever  with  lone.  In  the  mornings  they 
beguiled  the  sun  with  music;  in  the  evenings  they  forsook  the 
crowded  haunts  of  the  gay  for  excursions,  on  the  water,  or  along 
the  fertile  and  vine-clad  plains  that  lay  beneath  the  fatal  mount 
of  Vesuvius.  The  earth  shook  no  more;  the  lively  Pompeians 
forgot  even  that  there  had  gone  forth  so  terrible  a  warning  of 
their  approaching  doom.  Glaucus  imagined  that  convulsion,  in 
the  vanity  of  his  heathen  religion,  an  especial  interposition  of 
the  gods,  less  in  behalf  of  his  own  safety  than  that  of  lone.  He 
©ffered  up  the  sacrifices  of  gratitude  at  the  temples  of  his  faith; 
and  even  the  altar  of  Isis  was  covered  with  his  votive  garlands; 
as  to  the  prodigy  of  the  animated  marble,  he  blushed  at  the  effect 
it  had  produced  on  him.  He  believed  it,  indeed,  to  have  been 
wrought  by  the  magic  of  man;  but  the  result  convinced  him  that 
it  betokened  not  the  anger  of  a  goddess. 

Of  Arbaces,  they  heard  only  that  he  still  lived;  stretched  on  the 
bed  of  suffering,  he  recovered  slowly  from  the  effect  of  the  shock 
he  had  sustained — he  left  the  lovers  unmolested — but  it  was  only 
to  brood  over  the  hour  and  the  method  of  revenge. 

Alike  in  their  mornings  at  the  house  of  lone,  and  in  their  ex- 
cursions, Nydia  was  usually  their  constant,  and  often  their  sole 
companion.  They  did  not  guess  the  secret  fires  which  consumed 
her — the  abrupt  freedom  with  which  she  mingled  in  their  con- 
versation— her  capricious  and  often  her  peevish  moods  found 
ready  indulgence  in  the  recollection  of  the  service  they  owed  her, 
and  their  compassion  for  her  afiiiction.  They  felt  an  interest  in 
her,  perhaps  the  greater  and  more  affectionate  from  the  very 
strangeness  and  waywardness  of  her  nature,  her  singular  altern- 
ations of  passion  and  softness — the  mixture  of  ignorance  and 
(genius — of  delicacy  and  mdeness — of  the  quick  humors  of  the 
child,  and  the  proud  calmness  of  the  woman.  Although  she  re- 
fused to  accept  of  freedom,  she  was  constantly  suffered  to  be 
free;  she  went  where  she  listed;  no  curb  was  put  either  on  her 
words  or  actions;  tbey  felt  for  one  sc  darkly  fated,  and  so  sus- 


ISe  THE  LAST"t)AYS  OF  POMPEII  ^ 

ccptiblo  of  every  wound,  the  same  pitying  and  compliant  indr-^ 
gence  the  mother  feels  for  a  spoiled  and  sickly  child — dreading 
to  impose  authority,  even  where  they  imagined  it  for  her  benefit. 
She  availed  herself  of  this  license  by  refusing  the  companionship 
of  the  slave  whom  tliey  wished  to  attend  her. 

With  the  slender  staff  by  which  she  guided  her  steps,  she  went 
now,  as  in  her  former  unprotected  state,  along  the  populous 
streets;  it  was  almost  miraculous  to  perceive  how  quickly  and 
how  dexterously  she  threaded  every  crowd,  avoiding  every  dan- 
ger, and  could  find  her  benighted  way  through  the  most  intri- 
cate windings  of  the  city.  But  her  chief  delight  was  still  in 
visiting  the  few  feet  of  ground  which  made  the  garden  of  Glau- 
cus — in  tending  the  flowers,  that  at  least  repaid  her  love.  Some- 
times she  entered  the  chamber  where  he  sat,  and  sought  a  con- 
versation, which  she  nearly  always  broke  off  abruptly — for  con- 
versation with  Glaucus  only  tended  to  one  subject— io»e;  and 
that  name  from  his  lips  inflicted  agony  upon  her.  Often  she  bit- 
terly repented  the  service  she  had  rendered  to  lone;  often  she 
said  inly,  "  If  she  had  fallen,  Glaucus  could  have  loved  her  no 
longer;"  and  then  dark  and  fearful  thoughts  crept  into  her 
breast. 

She  had  not  experienced  fully  the  trials  that  were  in  store  for 
her,  when  she  had  been  thus  generous.  She  had  never  before 
been  present  when  Glaucus  and  lone  were  together:  she  had 
never  heard  that  voice  so  kind  to  her,  so  much  softer  to  another. 
The  shock  that  crushed  her  heart  with  the  tidings  that  Glaucus 
loved,  had  at  first  only  saddened  and  benumbed — by  degrees 
jealousy  took  a  wilder  and  fiercer  shape;  it  partook  of  hatred — it 
whispered  revenge.  As  you  see  the  wind  only  agitate  the  green 
leaf  upon  the  bough,  while  the  leaf  which  has  lain  withered  and 
seared  on  the  ground,  bruised  and  trampled  upon,  till  the  sap 
and  life  are  gone,  is  suddenly  whirled  aloft — now  here — now 
there — without  stay  and  without  rest;  so  the  love  which  visits  th 
happy  and  the  hopeful  hath  but  freshness  on  its  wings!  its  vio- 
lence is  but  sportive.  But  the  heart  that  hath  fallen  from  the 
^reen  things  of  life,  that  is  without  hope,  that  hath  no  summer 
m  its  fibers,  is  torn  and  whirled  by  the  same  wind  that  butcaress- 
es  its  brethren — it  hath  no  bough  to  cling  to — it  is  dashed  from 
path  to  path — till  the  winds  fall,  and  it  is  crushed  into  the  mire 
forever. 

The  friendless  childhood  of  Nydia  had  hardened  prematurely 
her  character;  perhaps  the  heated  scenes  of  profligacy  through 
which  she  had  passed,  seemingly  unscathed,  had  ripened  her 
passions,  though  they  had  not  sullied  her  purity.  The  orgies  of 
Burbo  might  only  have  disgusted,  the  banquets  of  the  Egyptian 
might  only  have  terrified,  at  the  moment;  but  the  winds  that 
pass  unheeded  over  the  soil  leave  seeds  behind  them.  As  dark- 
ness, too,  favors  the  imagination,  so,  perhaps,  her  very  bhndness 
"iontributed  to  feed  with  wild  and  delirious  visions  the  love  of 
,  ;he  unfortunate  girl. 

Tlie  voice  of  Glaucus  had  been  the  first  that  had  sounded  musi- 
cally to  her  ear  ;  his  kindness  made  a  deep  impression  upon  her 
mind;  when  he  bad  left  Pompeii  in  the  former  year,  she  ha4 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  137 

treasured  up  in  her  heart  every  word  he  had  uttered;  and  when 
any  one  told  her  that  this  friend  and  patron  of  the  poor  flower- 
girl  was  Ijhe  most  brilliant  and  the  most  graceful  ot  the  young 
revelers  of  Pompeii,  she  had  felt  a  pleasing  pride  in  nursing  his 
recollection.  Even  the  task  which  she  imposed  upon  herself,  of 
tending  his  flowers,  served  to  keep  him  in  her  mind;  she  associ- 
ated him  with  all  that  was  most  charming  to  her  impressions; 
and  when  she  had  refused  to  express  what  image  she  fancied 
lone  to  resemble,  it  was  partly,  pemaps,  that  whatever  was  bright 
and  soft  in  natui'e  she  had  already  combined  with  the  tliouglit  of 
Glaucus.  If  any  of  my  readers  ever  loved  at  an  age  which  they 
would  now  smile  to  remember — an  age  in  which  fancy  forestalled 
the  reason;  let  them  say  whether  that  love,  among  all  its  strange 
and  complicated  deUcacies,  was  not,  above  all  other  and  later 
passions,  susceptible  of  jealousy?  I  seek  not  here  the  causes:  I 
know  that  it  is  commonly  the  fact. 

When  Glaucus  returned  to  Pompeii,  Nydia  had  told  another 
year  of  hfe;that  year,  with  its  sorrows,  its  loneliness,  its  trials, 
had  greatly  developed  her  mind  and  heart;  and  when  the 
Athenian  drew  her  unconsciously  to  his  breast,  deeming  her  still 
in  soul  as  in  years  a  child — when  he  kissed  her  smooth  cheek, 
and  wound  his  arm  round  her  trembhng  frame,  Nydia  felt  sud- 
denly, and  as  by  revelation,  that  those  feelings  she  had  long  and 
innocently  cherished  were  of  love.  Doomed  to  be  rescued  from 
tyranny  by  Glaucus— doomed  to  take  shelter  under  his  roof — 
doomed  to  breathe,  but  for  so  brief  a  time,  the  same  air — and 
doomed,  in  the  first  rush  of  a  thousand  happy,  grateful,  dehcious 
sentiments  of  an  overflowing  heart,  to  hear  that  he  loved  another; 
to  be  commissioned  to  that  other,  the  messenger,  the  minister; 
to  feel  all  at  once  the  utter  nothingness  which  she  w^as — which 
she  ever  must  be,  but  which,  tUl  then,  her  young  mind  had  not 
taught  her — that  utter  nothingness  to  him  who  was  all  to  her; 
what  wonder  that,  in  her  wild  and  passionate  soul,  all  the  ele- 
ments jarred  discordant:  that  if  love  reigned  over  the  whole,  it 
was  not  the  love  which  is  born  of  the  more  sacred  or  soft 
emotions?  Sometimes  she  dreaded  only  lest  Glaucus  should 
discover  her  secret;  sometimes  she  felt  indignant  that  it  was  not 
suspected;  it  was  a  sign  of  contempt — could  he  imagine  that  she 
presumed  so  far  ?  Her  feeUngs  to  lone  ebbed  and  flowed  with 
every  hour;  now  she  loved  her  because  he  did;  now  she  hated  her 
for  the  same  cause.  There  were  moments  when  she  could  have 
murdered  her  unconscious  mistress;  moments  when  she  could 
have  lain  down  life  for  her.  These  fierce  and  tremulous 
alternations  of  passion  were  too  severe  to  be  borne  long.  Her 
health  gave  way,  though  she  felt  it  not — her  cheek  paled — her 
step  grew  feebler — tears  came  to  her  eyes  more  often,  and  reheved 
her  less. 

One  morning,  when  she  repaired  to  her  usual  task  in  the  gar- 
den of  the  Athenian,  she  found  Glaucus  under  the  columns  of 
the  peristyle,  with  a  merchant  of  the  town;  he  was  selecting 
jewels  for' his  destined  bride.  He  had  already  fitted  up  her  apart- 
ment; the  jewels  he  bought  that  day  were  also  placed  within  it 
•Hhe^  were  n^vei:  fated  to  grace  th^  fair  form  of  lonej  the/ 


128  THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEII, 

may  be  seen  at  this  day  amorg  the  disinteri-ed  treasures  of  PonK 
peii,  in  the  chambers  of  the  studio  at  Naples.* 

"  Come  liither,  Nydia;  put  down  thy  vase,  and  come  hither. 
Thou  must  take  this  chain  from  me— stay— there,  I  have  imt  it  on. 
There,  Servilius,  does  it  not  become  her?' 

**  Wonderful!  vl"  answered  the  jeweler;  for  jewelers  were  well- 
bred  and  nattering  men,  even  at  that  day.  ' '  But  when  these  ear- 
rings glitUT  in  the  ears  of  the  noble  loue,  then,  by  Bacchus!  you 
will  see  whether  my  art  adds  anything  to  beauty." 

♦'  loner'  repeated  Nydia,  who  had  hitherto  acknowledged  by 
Bmiles  and  bluslies  the  gift  of  Glaucus. 

"Yes  "  replied  the  Athenian,  carelessly  toymg  with  the  gems; 
"  I  am  choosing  a  present  for  lone,  but  there  are  none  worthy  of 
her." 

He  was  startled  as  he  spoke  by  an  abrupt  gesture  of  Nydia-, 
she  tore  the  chain  violently  from  her  neck,  and  dashed  it  on  the 

^^"^ow  is  this?  What,  Nydia,  dost  thou  not  Uke  the  bauble?  art 
thou  offended?" 

**  You  treat  me  ever  as  a  slave  and  as  a  child,"  replied  theThes- 
Balian,  with  a  breast  heaving  with  ill-suppressed  sobs,  and  she 
turned  hastily  away  to  the  opposite  corner  of  the  garden. 

Glaucus  did  not  attempt  to  follow,  or  to  soothe;  he  was  offend- 
ed; he  continued  to  examine  the  jewels  and  to  comment  on  their 
fashion— to  object  to  this  and  to  praise  tliat,  and  finally  to  be 
talked  by  the  merchant  into  buying  all;  the  safest  plan  for  a 
lover,  and  a  plan  that  any  one  will  do  right  to  adopt — provided 
always  that  he  can  obtain  an  lone? 

When  he  had  completed  his  purchase  and  dismissed  the  jewel- 
er he  retired  into  his  chamber,  dressed,  mounted  liis  chariot,  and 
went  to  lone.  He  thought  no  more  of  the  blind  gii-l,  or  her  of- 
fense; he  had  forgotten  both  the  one  and  tlie  other. 

He  spent  the  forenoon  with  his  beautiful  Neapolitan,  repaired 
thence  to  the  baths,  supped  (if,  as  wo  have  said  before,  we  can 
justly  so  translate  the  three  o'clock  coena  of  the  Romans)  alone, 
and  abroad,  for  Pompeii  had  its  restaurateurs — and  returning 
home  to  change  his  dress  ere  he  again  repaired  to  the  house  of 
lone,  he  passed  the  peristyle,  but  with  the  al>sorbed  reverie  and 
absent  eyes  of  a  man  in  love,  and  did  not  note  the  form  of  the 
poor  blind  girl,  bendiug  exactly  in  the  same  place  where  he  had 
left  her.  But  though  he  saw  her  not,  her  ear  recognized  at  once 
the  sound  of  his  step.  She  bad  been  counting  the  moments  to 
his  return.  He  had  scarcely  entered  his  favorite  chamber,  which 
opened  on  the  peristyle,  and  seated  liimself  musingly  on  his 
couch,  wlien  he  felt  his  robe  timorously  touclieil,  and  turning,  he 
beheld  Nydia  kneeling  before  liim,  and  holding  up  to  him  a 
handful  of  flowors — a  gentle  and  appro])riate  i)eace  offering — hec 
eyes,  darkly  upheld  to  liis  own,  stnamtMl  with  tears. 

"I  have  offended  thee,"  said  she,  sobbing,  "and  for  the  first 
time.     I  would  die  rather  than  cause  thee  a  moment's  pain — say 


*  Several  bracelets,  chains,  and  jewels  were  found  in  the  houiSQ, 


THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII.  129 

that  thou  wilt  forgive  me.    Seel    I  have  taken  up  the  chain;  I 
have  put  it  on;  I  will  never  part  from  it — it  is  thy  gift." 

"My  dear  Nydia."  returned  Glaucus,  and  raising  her,  he  kissed 
her  forehead,  "  think  of  it  no  more!  But^vhy,my  child,  wert 
thou  so  suddenly  angry?    I  could  not  divine  tb*»  cause!" 

"  Do  not  ask!"  said  she,  coloring  violently.  "  I  am  a  thing  full 
of  faults  and  humors:  you  know  I  am  but  a  child — you  say  so 
often :  is  it  from  a  child  that  you  can  expect  a  reason  for  every 
folly?" 

"But,  prettiest,  you  wUl  soon  be  a  child  no  more;  and  if  you 
would  have  us  treat  you  as  a  woman,  you  must  learn  to  govern 
these  singular  impulses  and  gales  of  passion.  Think  not  I  chide: 
no,  it  is  for  your  happiness  only  I  speak." 

"It  is  true,"  said  Nydia,  "  I  must  learn  to  govern  myself.  I 
must  hide,  I  must  suppress,  my  heart.  This  is  a  woman's  task 
and  duty;  methinks  her  virtue  is  hypocrisy." 

"  Self-control  is  not  deceit,  my  Nydia,"  returned  the  Athenian; 
**  and  that  is  the  virtue  necessar}^  alike  to  man  and  to  woman:  it 
is  the  tme  senatorial  toga,  the  badge  of  the  dignity  it  covers." 

"Self-control!  self-control!  Well,  weU,  what  you  say  is  rightl 
When  I  hsten  to  you,  Glaucus,  my  wildest  thoughts  grow  calm, 
and  sweet,  and  a  delicious  serenity  falls  over  me.  Advise,  ah! 
guide  me  ever,  my  preserver!" 

"  Thy  affectionate  heart  will  be  thy  best  guide,  Nydia,  when 
thou  hast  learned  to  regulate  its  feelings." 

"Ah I  that  will  be  never,"  sighed  Nydia,  wiping  away  her 
tears. 

"  Say  not  so:  the  first  effort  is  the  only  difficult  one." 
"  I  have  made  many  first  efforts,"  answered  Nydia,  innocently. 
"  But  you,   my  Mentor,  do  you  find  it  so  easy  to  control  your- 
self?   Can  you  conceal,  can  you  even  regulate,  your  love  for 
lone?" 

"  Love!  dear  Nydia:  ah!  that  is  quite  another  matter,"  an- 
swered the  young  preceptor. 

"I  thought  so!"  returned  Nydia,  with  a  melancholy  smile. 
"  Glaucus,  wilt  thou  take  my  poor  flowers?  Do  with  them  aa 
thou  wUt— thou  canst  give  them  to  lone,"  added  she,  with  a  little 
hesitation. 

"Nay,  Nydia,"  answered  Gaucus  kindly,  divining  something 
of  jealousy  in  her  language,  though  he  imagined  it  only  the  jeal- 
ousy of  a  vain  and  susceptible  child;  "  I  will  not  give  thy  pretty 
flowers  to  any  one.  Sit  here  and  weave  them  into  a  garland;  I 
will  wear  it  this  liight;  it  is  not  the  first  those  delicate  fingers 
have  woven  for  me." 

The  poor  girl  defightedly  sat  down  beside  Glaucus.  She  drew 
from  her  girdle  a  ball  of  the  many-colored  threads,  or  rather 
slender  ribands,  used  in  the  weaving  of  garlands,  and  which  (for 
it  was  her  professional  occupation)  she  carried  constantly  with 
her,  and  began  quickly  and  gracefully  to  commence  her  task. 
Upon  her  young  cheeks  the  tears  were  already  dried,  a  faint  but 
happy  smile  played  round  her  lips; — child-hke,  indeed,  she  was 
sensible  only  of  the  joy  of  the  ptreseut  hour;  she  was  reconciled 
tp  Glaucus;  he  had  forgiven  her — she  wge  beside  lum — he  played 


130  ^HE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

caressingly  Trith  her  silken  hair — his  breath  fanned  her  cheek—* 
lone,  the  cruel  lone,  was  not  by — none  other  demanded,  divided, 
his  care.  Yes,  she  was  happy  and  forgetful;  it  was  one  of  the 
few  moments  in  her  brief  and  troubled  life  that  it  w^as  sw^eet  to 
treasure,  to  recall.  As  the  butterfly,  allured  by  the  winter  sun, 
basks  for  a  little  while  in  the  sudden  light,  ere  yet  the  wind 
awakes  and  the  frost  comes  on.  which  sliall  blast  it  before  the 
eve — she  rested  beneatii  a  beam,  which,  by  contrast  with  the 
wonted  skies,  was  not  chilling;  and  the  instinct  which  would 
have  warned  her  of  its  briefness,  bade  her  only  gladden  in  its 
emile. 

"  Thou  hast  beautiful  locks,"  said  Glaucus.  **  they  were  once, 
I  ween  weU,  a  mother's  delight." 

Nydia  sighed ;  it  would  seem  that  she  had  not  been  born  a 
slave;  but  she  ever  shunned  the  mention  of  her  parentage,  and, 
whether  obscure  or  noble,  certain  it  is  that  her  birth  was  never 
known  by  her  benefactors  nor  by  any  in  those  distant  shores, 
even  to  the  last.  The  child  of  sorrow  and  of  mystery,  she  came 
and  went  as  some  bird  that  enters  our  chamber  for  a  moment; 
we  see  it  flutter  for  a  while  before  us,  w^e  know  not  whence  it 
flew  or  to  what  region  it  escapes. 

Nydia  sighed,  and  after  a  short  pause,  without  answering  the 
remark,  said — . 

"  But  do  I  weave  too  many  roses  in  my  wreath,  Glaucus? 
Th^y  tell  me  it  is  thy  favorite  flower." 

"And  ever  favored,  my  Nydia,  belt  by  those  who  have  the 
soul  of  poetry;  it  is  the  flower  of  love,  of  festivals;  it  is  also  the 
flower  we  dedicate  to  silence  and  to  death;  it  blooms  on  our 
brows  in  life,  while  life  be  Morth  the  having;  it  is  scattered 
above  our  sepulcher  when  we  are  no  more." 

*'  Ayl  would,"  said  Nydia,  "  instead  of  this  perishable  wreath, 
that  I  could  take  thy  web  from  the  hand  of  the  Fates,  and  insert 
the  roses  ihere"^ 

*'  Pretty  one!  thy  wish  is  worthy  of  a  voice  so  attuned  to  song; 
it  is  uttered  in  the  spirit  of  song;  and,  whatever  my  doom,  I 
thank  thee." 

"Whatever  thy  doom!  is  it  not  already  destined  to  all  things 
bright  and  fair?  ]\Iy  wish  was  vain.  The  Fate  will  be  as  tender 
to  thee  as  I  should." 

*'  It  might  not  be  so,  Nydia,  w^ere  it  not  for  love.  While 
youth  lasts,  I  may  forget  my  country  for  a  while.  But  what 
Atlienian,  in  his  gi-aver  miinhood,  can  think  of  Athens  as  she 
was,  and  be  contented  tliat  he  is  happy  while  she  is  fallen? — 
fallen,  and  forever!" 

"And  why  forever?*' 

"As  ashes  cannot  be  rekindled — as  love  once  dead  never  can 
revive,  so  freedom  departed  from  a  people  is  never  regained. 
But  talk  we  not  of  these  matters  unsuited  to  thee." 

"Tome,  oil!  tliou  errest.  I,  too,  liave  my  sighs  for  Greece; 
my  cradle  was  rocked  at  the  feet  of  Olympus;  the  gods  have  left 
the  mountain,  but  their  traces  may  be  seen — seen  in  the  liearts 
of  their  worshipers,  seen  in  the  In^auty  of  thi'ir  clime;  they  tell 
me  it  is  beautiful,  and  I  have  felt  its  airs,  to  which  even  tbfi«» 
aje  harsh— its  sun,  to  wlu'cli  thet'e  skies  &re  chilL  ph!  tekUi  \o  mo 


The  last  days  op  pompeit.  m 

of  Greece!  Poor  fool  that  I  am,  I  can  comprehend  thee,  and 
methinks,  had  I  yet  Hngered  on  those  shoi'es,  had  I  been  a 
Grecian  maid  whose  happy  fate  it  was  to  love  and  to  be  loved,  I 
myself  could  have  armed  my  lover  for  another  Marathon,  a  new 
Platoea.  Yes,  the  hand  that  now  weaves  the  roses  should  have 
woven  thee  the  olive  crown!' 

"If  such  a  day  could  come!"  said  Glaucus,  catching  the  en- 
thusiasm of  the  blind  Thessalian,  and  half  rising.  "  But  no;  the 
sun  has  set,  and  the  night  only  bids  us  be  forgetful — and  in  for- 
getfulness  be  gay — weave  still  the  roses!" 

But  it  was  with  a  melancholy  tone  of  forced  gayety  that  the 
Athenian  uttered  the  last  words;  and  sinking  into  a  gloomy 
reverie,  he  was  only  wakened  from  it,  a  few  minutes  afterward, 
by  the  voice  of  Nydia,  as  she  sang  in  a  low  tone  the  following 
words,  which  he  had  once  taught  her: 

THE  APOLOGY  FOR  PLEASURE. 

Who  will  assume  the  bays 

That  the  hero  wore  ? 
Wreaths  on  the  Tomb  of  Days 

Gone  evermore  ! 
Who  shall  disturb  the  brave, 
Or  one  leaf  of  their  holy  grave  ? 
The  laurel  is  vow'd  to  them. 
Leave  the  bay  on  its  sacred  stem  I 

But  this,  the  rose,  the  fading  rose, 
Alike  for  slave  and  freeman  grows ! 

If  Memory  sits  beside  the  dead 

With  tombs  her  only  treasure j;/ 
If  Hope  is  lost  and  freedom  fled, 

The  more  excuse  for  Pleasure. 
Come,  weave  the  wreath,  the  roses  weave, 

The  rose  at  least  is  our.?; 
To  feeble  hearts  our  fathers  leave, 

In  pitying  scorn,  the  flowers  ! 

On  the  summit,  worn  and  hoary, 
Of  Phyle's  solemn  hill, 
The  tramp  of  the  brave  is  still ! 
And  still  in  the  saddening  Mart, 
The  pulse  of  that  mighty  heart. 

Whose  very  blood  was  glory  I 
Glaucopis  forsakes  her  own, 

The  angry  gods  forget  us  ; 
Biit  yet,  the  blue  streams  along^ 
Walk  the  feet  of  the  silver  Song; 
And  the  night-bird  wakes  the  noon; 
And  the  bees  in  the  blushing  moon 

Haunt  the  heart  of  the  old  Hymettus  I 
We  are  fallen,  but  not  forlorn. 

If  something  is  left  ho  cherish; 
As  Love  was  th^  earliest  born; 

So  Love  is  the  last  to  perish. 
Wreathe  then  the  roses,  wreathe 

The  Beautifdx,  still  is  ours. 
While  the  stream  shall  flow,  and  the  sky  shall  glow. 
The  Beautiful  still  is  ours  ! 

Whatever  is  fair,  or  soft,  or  Toright, 


I8ft  ^HE  LAST  DA  tS  OF  P03fPETl 

In  the  lap  of  day  or  the  arms  of  night, 
Whispers  oiir  soul  of  Greece — of  Greece, 
And  hushes  our  care  with  a  voice  of  peace. 

Wreathe  tlicii  tlie  roses,  wreathe  I 
They  tell  me  of  earlier  hours; 

And  I  hear  the  heart  of  my  Country  breathe 
From  the  lips  of  the  Stranger's  flowers. 


CHAPTER  V. 

NYDIA  ENCOUNTERS  JITLIA. — INTERVIEW  OP  THE  HEATHEN  SISTER 
AND  CONVERTED  BROTHER.— AN  ATHENIAN'S  NOTION  OP  CHRIS- 
TIANITY. 

"  What  happiness  to  lone  1  what  bhss  to  be  ever  by  the  side  of 
Glaucus,  to  hear  his  voice  I    And  she  too  can  see  him  1" 

Such  was  the  soliloquy  of  the  blind  girl,  as  she  walked  alone 
and  at  twilight  to  the  house  of  her  new  mistress,  whither  Glaucus 
had  already  preceded  her.  Suddenly  she  was  interrupted  in  her 
fond  thoughts  by  a  female  voice. 

"Blind  flower-girl,  whither  goest  thou?  There  is  no  pannier 
under  thine  arm;  hast  thou  sold  all  thy  flowers?" 

The  person  thus  accosting  Nydia  was  a  lady  of  a  handsome, 
but  a  bold  and  unmaidenly,  countenance;  it  was  Julia,  the 
daughter  of  Diomed.  Her  veil  was  half  raised  as  she  spoke;  she 
was  accompanied  by  Diomed  himself,  and  by  a  slave  carrying  a 
lantern  before  them — the  merchant  and  his  daughter  were  re- 
turning home  from  a  supper  at  one  of  their  neighbor's. 

"Dost  thou  not  remember  my  voice?'' continued  Julia.  *'I 
am  the  daughter  of  Diomed  the  wealthy." 

'*  Ah!  forgive  me;  yes,  I  recall  the  tones  of  your  voice.  No, 
noble  Julia,  I  have  no  flowers  to  sell." 

*'  I  heard  thou  wert  purchased  by  the  beautiful  Greek,  Glau- 
cus; is  that  ti-ue,  pretty  slave?"  asked  Julia. 

"  I  serve  the  Neapolitan,  lone,"  replied  Nydia,  evasively. 

"Ah!  and  it  is  true,  then — " 

"  Come,  come!"  interrupted  Diomed,  with  his  cloak  up  to  his 
mouth,  "  the  night  grows  cold;  I  can  not  stay  here  while  you 
prate  to  that  blind  girl;  come,  let  her  follow  you  home,  if  you 
wish  to  speak  to  her." 

*'  Do,  child,"  said  Juha.  with  an  air  of  one  not  accustomed  to 
be  refused;  "  I  have  much  to  ask  of  thee;  come." 

"  I  cannot  this  night,  it  grows  late,"  answered  Nydia.  "  I 
must  be  at  home;  I  am  not  free,  noble  Julia." 

"  What!  the  meek  lone  will  chide  thee?  Ay,  I  doubt  not  she 
is  a  second  Thalestris.  But  come,  then,  to-morrow;  do — remem- 
ber I  have  been  thy  friend  of  old." 

"  I  will  obey  thy  wishes,"  answered  Nydia;  and  Diomed  again 
impatiently  summoned  liis  daughter;  she  was  obliged  to  proceed, 
with  the  main  question  she  had  desired  to  put  to  Nydia,  un- 
asked. 

Meanwhile  we  return  to  lone.  The  interval  of  time  that  had 
elaiised  that  day  between  the  first  and  second  visit  of  Glaucus 
Jjad  not  been  too  gayly  spent;  she  had  received  a  letter  from  her 


THE  LAST  DATS  OF  POMPEII,  133 

brother.  Since  the  night  he  had  assisted  in  saving  her  from  the 
Egjrptian,  she  had  not  before  seen  liim. 

Occupied  with  his  own  thoughts — thoughts  of  so  serious  and 
intense  a  nature — the  young  priest  had  thought  little  uf  Ills  sis- 
ter;  in  truth,  men  perhaps  of  that  fervent  order  of  mind  which 
is  aspiring  above  earth,  are  but  little  prone  to  the  earthlier  affec- 
tions; and  it  had  been  long  since  Apaecideshad  sought  those  soft 
and  friendly  interchanges  of  thought,  those  sweet  confidences, 
which  in  his  earUer  youth  had  bound  him  to  lone,  and  which 
are  so  natural  to  that  endearing  connection  which  existed  be- 
tween them. 

lone,  however,  had  not  ceased  to  regret  liis  estrangement;  she 
attributed  it,  at  present,  to  the  engrossing  duties  of  liis  severe 
fraternity.  And  often,  amid  all  her  bright  hopes,  and  her  new 
attachment  to  her  betrothed — often,  when  she  thought  of  her 
betrothed — often,  when  she  thought  of  her  brother's  brow  pre- 
maturely fun-owed,  his  unsmiling  lip,  and  bended  frame,  she 
sighed  to  think  that  his  service  of  the  gods  could  tlirow  so  deep 
a  shadow  over  that  earth  which  the  gods  created. 

But  this  day  when  he  visited  her  there  was  a  strange  calm- 
ness on  his  features,  a  more  quiet  and  self-possessed  expression 
on  his  sunken  eyes,  than  she  had  marked  for  years.  This  appar- 
ent improvement  was  but  momentary — it  was  a  false  calm,  which 
die  least  breeze  could  ruffle. 

''May  the  gods  bless  thee,  my  brother  1"  said  she,  embracing 
him. 

"The  gods  I  Speak  not  thus  vaguely;  perchance  there  is  but 
one  God!" 

*'  My  brother!" 

"  What  if  the  sublime  faith  of  the  Nazarene  be  true?  What  if 
God  be  a  monarch — One — Invisible — Alone?  What  if  these  num- 
erous, countless  deities,  whose  altars  fill  the  earth,  be  but  evil 
demons,  seeking  to  wean  us  from  the  true  creed?  This  may  be 
the  case,  lone!" 

"  Alas!  can  we  believe  it?  or  if  we  believed,  would  it  not  be  a 
melancholy  faith?"  answered  the  Neapolitan.  *'WhatI  all  this 
beautiful  world  made  only  human! — ^the  mountain  disenchanted 
of  its  Oread — the  waters  of  their  Nymph — that  beautiful  prodi- 
gality of  faith,  which  makes  everything  divine,  consecrating  the 
meanest  flowers;  bearing  celestial  whispers  in  the  faintest  breeze 
— wouldst  thou  deny  this,  and  make  the  earth  mere  dust  and 
clay?  No,  Apsecides;  all  that  is  brightest  in  our  hearts  is  that 
very  credulity  which  peoples  the  universe  with  gods. 

lone  answered  as  a  believer  in  the  poesy  old  mythology  would 
answer.  We  may  judge  by  that  reply  how  obstinate  and  hard 
the  contest  which  Christianity  had  to  endure  among  the  heathens. 
The  Graceful  Superstition  was  never  silent;  every,  the  most 
humble,  action  of  their  lives  was  entwined  with  it — it  was  a 
portion  of  life  itself,  as  the  flowers  are  apart  of  the  thyrsus.  At 
every  incident  they  recurred  to  a  god,  every  cup  of  wine  was 
prefaced  by  a  libation,  the  very  garlands  on  then- thresholds  were 
to  some  divinity;  their  ancestors  themselves,  made  holy,  presided 
i»s  I^ares  evtejc  their  hearth  and  hall.  So  abundant  was  belief  with 


134  THE  L^iSr  DA  YS  OF  POMPElt 

them,  that  ^n  their  ovra  climes,  at  this  hofur,  idoLitry  has  neve* 
thoroughly  been  outrooted;  it  changes  but  its  objects  of  worship, 
it  appears  to  innuiiicrable  saiuts  where  once  it  resorted  to  divin- 
ities: and  it  pours  its  crowds,  iu  listening  reverence,  to  the 
oracles  at  the  shrines  of  St.  Januarius  or  St.  Stephen,  instead  of 
to  those  of  Isis  or  Ai)ollo. 

But  these  superstitions  were  not  to  the  early  Cliristians  the 
object  of  contempt  so  much  as  of  horror.  TJiey  did  not  believe, 
with  tlie  quiet  skepticism  of  the  heathen  philoso])hcr,  that  the 
gods  were  inventions  of  the  priests;  nor  even,  with  the  vidgar, 
that,  according  to  the  dim  light  of  history,  they  had  been 
mortals  like  themselves.  They  imagined  the  heathen  divinities 
to  be  evil  spirits — they  transplanted  to  Italy  and  to  Greece  the 
gloomy  demons  of  India  and  the  East;  and  in  Jupiter  or  in  Mars 
they  shuddered  at  the  representative  of  Moloch  or  of  Satan. 

Apaecides  had  not  yet  adopted  formally  the  Christian  faith, 
but  he  was  ah-eady  on  the  brink  of  it.  He  already  participated 
the  doctrines  of  Olinthus — he  already  imagined  that  the  lively 
imaginations  of  the  heathen  were  the  suggestions  of  the  arch- 
enemy of  mankind.  The  innocent  and  natuial  answer  of  lone 
made  him  shudder.  He  hastened  to  reply  vehemently,  and  yet 
BO  confusedly,  that  lone  feared  for  his  reason  more  than  she 
dreaded  his  violence. 

**  Ah,  my  brother,"  said  she,  "  these  hard  duties  of  thine  have 
shattered  thy  very  sense.  Come  to  me,  Apoecides,  my  brother, 
my  own  brother;  give  me  thy  hand,  let  me  wipe  the  dew  from 
thy  brow;  chide  me  not  now,  I  understand  thee  not;  think  only 
that  lone  could  not  offend  thee." 

*'  lone,"  said  Apsecides.  drawing  her  toward  him,  and  regard- 
ing her  tenderly,  "  can  I  think  that  this  beautiful  form,  this  kind 
heart,  may  be  destined  to  an  eternity  of  torment?" 

"Diimelioral  the  gods  forbid!"  said  lone,  in  the  customary 
form  of  words  by  which  her  contemporaries  thought  an  omen 
might  be  averted. 

The  words,  and  still  more  the  superstition  they  implied, 
wounded  the  ear  of  Apaecides.  He  rose,  muttering  to  himself, 
turned  from  the  chamber,  then,  stopping  haK-way,  gazed  wist-" 
fully  on  lone,  and  extended  his  arms. 

lone  flew  to  them  in  joy;  he  kissed  her  earnestly,  and  then  he 
said: 

''Farewell,  my  sister  1  when  we  next  meet,  thou  mayest  l>e  to 
me  as  nothing;  take  thou,  then,  this  embrace— full  yet  of  all  the 
tender  reminiscences  of  childhood,  when  faith  and  hope,  creeds, 
customs,  interests,  objects,  were  the  same  to  us.  Now,  the  tie  is 
to  be  broken." 

With  these  strange  words  he  left  the  house. 

The  great  and  severest  trial  of  the  primitive  Christians  was  in- 
deed this;  tlieir  conversion  separated  them  from  their  dearest 
bonds.  They  could  not  associate  with  beings  whose  commonest 
actions,  whose  commonest  forms  of  speech,  were  impregnated 
with  idolatry.  They  shuddered  at  the  blessing  of  love;  to  theii 
ears  it  was  uttered  in  a  demon's  name.  This,  their  misfortune- 
was  their  strength;  if  it  divided  them  from  the  rest  of  the  world 


fM:B  LAST  DATS  OF  POMPElt  13S 

it  was  to  unite  them  proportionally  to  each  other.  They  were 
men  of  iron  who  wrought  forth  the  Word  of  God,  and  verily  the 
bonds  that  bound  them  were  of  iron  also. 

Glaucus  fomid  lone  in  tears;  he  had  ah-ea^y  assumed  the 
sweet  privilege  to  console.  He  drew  from  her  a  recital  of  her 
interview  with  her  brother;  but  in  her  confused  account  of  lan- 
guage, itself  so  confused  to  one  not  iDrepared  for  it,  he  was  equal- 
ly at  a  loss  with  lone  to  conceive  the  intentions  or  the  meaning 
of  Apgecides. 

"  Hast  thou  ever  heard  much,"  asked  she,  "  of  this  new  sect  of 
the  Nazarenes,  of  which  my  brother  spoke?" 

"  I  have  often  heard  enough  of  the  votaries,"  returned  Glau- 
cus, "  but  of  their  exact  tenets  know  I  naught,  save  that  in  their 
doctrine  there  seemeth  something  preternaturally  chilling  and 
morose.  They  Uved  ajjart  from  their  kind;  they  affect  to  be 
shocked  even  at  our  simple  uses  of  garlands;  they  have  no  sym- 
pathies with  the  cheerful  amusements  of  life;  they  utter  awful 
threats  of  the  coming  destruction  of  the  world;  they  appear,  in 
one  word,  to  have  brought  their  unsmiling  and  gloomy  creed  out 
of  the  cave  of  Trophonius.  Yes,"  continued  Glaucus,  after  a 
sKght  pause,  "they  have  not  wanted  men  of  great  power  and 
genius,  nor  converts,  even  among  the  Areopagites  of  Athens. 
Well  do  I  remember  to  have  heard  my  father  speak  of  one 
strange  guest  at  Athens  many  years  ago;  methinks  his  name  wa3 
Paul.  My  father  was  among  a  mighty  crowd  that  gathered  on 
one  of  our  immemorial  hills  to  hear  this  sage  of  the  East  ex- 
pound: thi'ough  the  wide  throng  there  rang  not  a  single  murmur 
— ^the  jest  and  the  roar,  with  which  our  native  orations  are  re- 
ceived, were  hushed  for  him — and  when  on  the  loftiest  summit 
of  that  hill,  raised  above  the  breathless  crowd  belovv-,  stood  this 
mysterious  visitor,  his  mien  and  his  countenance  awed  every 
heart,  even  before  a  sound  left  his  hps.  He  was  a  man,  I  have 
heard  my  father  say,  of  no  tall  stature,  but  of  noble  and  impres- 
Bive  mien;  his  robes  were  dark  and  ample;  the  declining  sun,  for 
it  was  evening,  shone  aslant  upon  his  form  as  it  rose  aloft,  mo- 
tionless and  commanding;  liis  countenance  was  much  worn  and 
marked,  as  of  one  who  had  braved  alike  misfortune  and  the 
sternest  vicissitudes  of  many  climes;  but  his  eyes  were  bright 
with  an  almost  uneai-thly  fire,  and  when  he  raised  liis  arm  to 
speak,  it  was  with  the  majesty  of  a  man  into  whom  the  Spirit  of 
a  God  hath  rushed. 

"  '  Men  of  Athens,'  he  is  reported  to  have  said,  *  I  find  among 
ye  an  altar  with  this  inscription,  To  the  UNKNOWisr  God.  Ye  wor- 
ship in  ignorance  the  same  Deitv  I  serve.  To  you  unknown  till 
now,  to  you  be  it  now  revealed.^ 

"  Then  declared  that  solemn  man  how  this  great  Maker  of  all- 
things,  who  had  appointed  unto  man  his  several  tribes  and  his 
various  homes — the  Lord — earth  and  the  universal  heaven,  dwelt 
not  in  temples  made  with  hands;  tliat  His  presence,  His  spirit, 
were  in  the  air  we  breathed — our  life  and  our  being  were  with 
Him.  '  Think  you,'  he  cried,  *  that  the  Invisible  is  like  your 
statues  of  gold  and  marble?  Think  you  that  He  needeth  sacri- 
fice from  you;  He  who  made  heaven  and  earth?'    Then  spoke  h© 


1S8  TIIE  LA^T  TiAYS  OP  POMpETT, 

of  fearful  and  cominj:?  times,  of  the  end  of  the  world,  of  a  second 
rising  of  the  dead,  whereof  an  assurance  had  been  given  to  man 
in  the  resurrection  of  the  mighty  Being  whose  religion  he  came 
to  preach. 

"When  he  thus  spoke,  the  long-pent  murmur  went  forth,  and 
the  philosophers  that  were  mingled  with  the  people,  muttered 
their  sage  contempt;  there  might  you  have  seen  the  cliilUng 
frown  of  the  Stoic,  and  the  Cynic's  sneer;  and  the  Epicurean, 
wlio  believeth  not  even  in  our  own  Elysium,  muttered  a  pleasant 
jest,  and  swept  laughingthrough  the  crowd;  but  the  deep  heart 
of  the  people  was  touched  and  thrilled;  and  they  trembled, 
though  they  knew  not  why,  for  verily  the  stranger  had  the  voice 
and  majesty  of  a  man  to  whom  '  The  Unknown  God'  had  com- 
mitted the  preaching  of  His  faith." 

lone  listened  ^\^th  rapt  attention,  and  the  serious  and  earnest 
manner  of  tlie  narrator  betrayed  the  impression  that  he  himself 
had  received  from  one  who  had  been  among  the  audience  that  on 
the  hill  of  the  heathen  Mars  had  heard  the  first  tidings  of  the 
word  of  Christ  I 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  PORTER,  THE  GHIL,   AXD    THE  GLADIATOR. 

The  door  of  Diomed's  house  stoon  open,  and  Medon,  the  old 
slave,  sat  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps  by  wl  dch  you  ascended  to  the 
mansion.  That  luxurious  mansion  of  the  rich  merchant  of 
Pompeii  is  still  to  be  seen  just  without  the  gates  of  the  city,  at 
the  commencement  of  the  Street  of  Tombs;  it  was  a  gay  neigh- 
borliood,  despite  the  dead.  On  the  opposite  side,  but  at  some 
yards  nearer  the  gate,  was  a  spacious  hostelry,  at  which  those 
brought  by  business  or  by  pleasure  to  Pompeii  often  stopped  to 
refresh  themselves.  In  the  space  before  the  entrance  of  the  inn 
now  stood  wagons,  and  caris,  and  chariots,  some  just  arrived, 
Bome  just  quitting,  in  all  the  bustle  of  an  animated  and  popular 
resort  of  public  entertainment.  Before  the  door,  some  farmers, 
seated  on  a  bench  by  a  small  circular  table,  were  talking  over 
their  morning  cups,  on  the  affairs  of  their  calling.  On  the  side 
of  the  door  itself  was  painted  gayly  and  freshly  the  eternal  sign 
of  tlie  chequers.*  By  the  roof  of  the  inn  stretched  a  terrace,  on 
which  some  females,  wives  of  the  farmers  above  mentioned,  were, 
some  seated,  some  leaning  over  the  railing,  and  conversing  with 
their  friends  below.  In  a  deep  recess,  at  a  little  distance,  was  a 
covered  seat,  in  which  some  two  or  three  poorer  travelers  were 
resting  tliemselves,  and  shaking  the  dust  from  their  garments. 
On  the  other  side  stretched  a  wide  space,  originally  the  burial- 
ground  of  a  more  ancient  race  than  the  present  denizens  of  Pom- 
Eeii,  and  now  converted  into  the  Ustrinum,  or  place  for  the 
uming  of  the  dead.  Above  this  rose  the  terraces  of  a  gay  villa, 
half  hid  by  trees.  The  tombs  themselves,  with  their  graceful 
and  varied  shapes,  the  flowers  and  the  foliage  that  surrounded 
them,  made  no  melancholv  feature  in  the  prospect.  Hard  by  the 
gate  of  the  city,  in  a  small  niche,  stood  the  still  form  of  the  well- 

m  • 

♦  There  is  another  inn  within  the  walls  similarly  adorned. 


^HE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  m 

divided  into  three  arches,  the  center  one  for  vehicles,  *tb©  others 
for  foot-passengers,  and  on  either  side  rose  the  maaeive  walls 
which  girt  the  city,  composed,  patched,  repaired  at  a  thousand 
different  epochs,  according  as  war,  time,  or  the  earthquake,  had 
shattered  that  vain  protection.  At  frequent  intervals  rose 
square  towers,  whose  summits  broke  in  picturesque  rudeness  the 
regular  line  of  the  wall,  and  contrasted  well  with  the  modern 
buildings  gleaming  whitely  by. 

The  curving  road,  wliicli  in  that  direction  leads  from  Pompeii 
to  Herculaneum,  wound  out  of  sight  amid  banging  vines,  above 
which  frowned  the  sullen  majesty  of  Vesuvius. 

"  Hast  thou  heard  the  news,  old  Medon?"  said  a  young  wo- 
man, with  a  pitcher  in  her  hand,  as  she  paused  by  Diomed's  door 
to  gossip  a  moment  with  the  slave,  ere  she  repaired  to  the  neigh- 
boring inn  to  fill  the  vessel,  and  coquet  the  travelers. 

*'  The  news  I  what  news?"  said  the  slave,  raising  his  eyes  mood- 
ily from  the  ground. 

"  Why,  there  passed  through  the  gate  this  morning,  no  douW; 
ere  thou  were  well  awake,  such  a  visitor  to  Pompeiil" 

^'  Ay,"  said  the  slave,  indifferently. 

*' Yes,  a  present  from  the  noble  Pomponianus." 

^'  A  presentl  I  thought  thou  said  a  visitor!" 

*' It  is  both  visitor  and  present.  Know,  O  dull  and  stupid! 
that  it  is  a  most  beautiful  young  tiger,  for  our  approaching 
games  in  the  amphitheater.  Hear  you  that,  Medon?  Oh,  what 
pleasiu-e!  I  declare  I  shall  not  sleep  a  wink  till  I  see  it;  they  say 
it  has  such  a  roar  I" 

"Poor fool!"  said  Medon,  sadly  and  cynically. 

"  Fool,  me  no  fool,  old  churl!  It  is  a  pretty  thing,  a  tiger,  es- 
pecially if  we  could  but  find  somebody  for  him  to  eat.  We  have 
now  a  lion  and  a  tiger;  only  consider  that,  Medon!  and,  for  want 
of  two  good  criminals,  perhaps  we  shall  be  forced  to  see  them 
€at  each  other.  By  the  by,  your  son  is  a  gladiator,  a  handsome 
man  and  strong;  can  you  not  persuade  him  to  fight  the  tiger?. 
Do  now,  you  w^ould  oblige  me  mightily;  nay,  you  would  be  a 
benefactor  to  the  whole  tow^n." 

"Vah!  vah!"  said  the  slave,  with  great  asperity;  "think  of 
thine  own  danger  ere  thou  thus  pratest  of  my  poor  boy's  death." 

"My  own  danger!"  said  the  girl,  frightened  and  looking  has- 
tily round — "  Avert  the  omen!  let  thy  words  fall  on  thine  own 
head!"  And  the  girl  as  she  spoke  touched  a  talisman  suspended 
round  her  neck.  *' '  Thine  own  danger!'  what  danger  threatens 
me?" 

"Had  the  earthquake  but  a  few  nights  since  no  warning?'* 
said  Medon.  "  Has  it  not  a  voice?  Did  it  not  say  to  us  all: 
'  Prepare  for  death;  the  end  of  all  things  is  at  hand?' " 

"  Bah,  stuff!"  said  the  young  woman,  settling  the  folds  of  her 
tunic.  "  Now  thou  talkest,  as  they  say  the  Nazarenes  talk — ^me- 
thinks  thou  art  one  of  them.  Well,  I  can  prate  with  thee,  gray 
croker,  no  more;  thou  growest  worse  and  w^orse — Yale!  O  Her- 
cules, send  us  a  man  for  the  lion — and  another  for  the  tij]:err'  _ 
disciplined  Roman  sentry,  the  sun  shining  brightly  on  his  polish* 
ed  crest,  and  the  lance  on  which  he  leaned.    The  gate  itself  was 


ISd  THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII, 

Hof  hoi  for  the  nieiTy,  merry  show, 
With  a  forest  of  faces  in  every  rowl 
Lo,  the  swordsmen,  bold  as  tlio  son  of  Alcmaena, 
Sweep,  side  by  side,  o'er  the  hushed  arena: 
Talk  while  you  may— you  will  hold  your  breath 
When  they  meet  in  the  grasp  of  the  glowing  death. 
Tramp,  tramp,  how  gayly  they  go! 
Hoi  hoi  for  the  merry,  merry  show. 

Chanting  in  a  silver  and  clear  voice  this  feminine  ditty,  and 
holding  up  her  tunic  from  the  dusty  road,  the  young  woman 
stepped  lightly  across  to  the  crowded  hostelry. 

"My  poor  son!"  said  the  slave,  half  aloud,  "is  it  for  things  like 
tliis  thou  art  to  be  butchered?  Oh!  faith  of  Christ,  I  could  "svor- 
Bhip  thee  in  all  sincerity,  were  it  but  for  the  horror  which  thou 
inspirest  for  these  bloody  lists." 

The  old  man's  head  sank  dejectedly  on  his  breast.  He  re- 
mained sUent  and  absorbed,  but  every  now  and  then  with  the 
comer  of  liis  sleeve  he  wiped  his  eyes.  His  heart  was  with  liis 
son;  he  did  not  see  the  figure  that  now  approached  from  tlie  gate 
with  a  quick  step,  and  a  somewhat  fierce  and  reckless  gait  and 
carriage.  He  did  not  lift  his  eyes  till  the  figure  paused  opposite 
the  place  where  he  sat,  and  with  a  soft  voice  addressed  him  by 
the  name  of — 

"Fatherl" 

"  My  boy  I  my  LydonI  it  is  indeed  thou?'  said  the  old  man,  joy- 
fully.    "Ah,  thou  wert  present  to  my  thoughts." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  my  father."  said  the  gladiator,  respect- 
fully touching  the  knees  and  beard  of  the  slave;  "  and  soon  may 
I  be  always  present  with  thee,  not  in  thought  only." 

"Yes,  my  son — but  not  in  this  world,"  replied  the  slave,  mourn- 
fully. 

"Talk  not  thus,  Omy  sire!  look  cheerfully,  for  I  feel  so— I  am 
sure  that  I  shall  ■v\'in  the  day;  and  then  the  gold  I  gain  buys  thy 
freedom.  Oh!  my  fatlier,  it  w^as  but  a  few  days  since  that  I  was 
taunted,  by  one  to  whom  I  would  gladly  have  undeceived,  for  he 
is  more  generous  than  the  rest  of  his  equals.  He  is  not  Roman — 
he  is  of  Athens — by  him  I  \vas  taunted  with  the  lust  of  gain — 
when  I  demanded  what  sum  was  the  prize  of  victory.  Alas,  he 
little  knew  the  soul  of  Lydon!" 

"My  boy!  my  boy!"  said  the  old  slave,  as,  slowly  ascending 
the  steps,  he  conducted  his  son  to  liis  own  httle  chamber,  com- 
municating with  the  entrance  hall  (wliich  in  this  villa  was  the 
peristyle,  not  the  atrium) — you  may  see  it  now:  it  is  the  third 
door  to  the  right  on  entering.  (The  first  door  conducts  to  the 
staircase;  the  second  is  but  a  false  recess,  in  which  there  is  a 
statue  of  bronze.)  "Generous,  affectionate,  pious  as  are  thy 
motives,"  said  Medon,  when  they  were  thus  seciu-ed  from 
observation,  "  thy  deed  itself  is  guilt;  thou  art  to  risk  thy  blood 
for  tljy  father's  freedom— tliat  might  be  forgiven;  but  the  prize 
of  victory  is  the  blood  of  another.  Oh,  that  is  a  deadlv  sin;  no 
object  can  purify  it.  Forbear!  forlx'ar!  rather  would  I  be  a  slave 
forever  than  purchase  liberty  on  such  terms!" 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII,  139 

"Hush,  my  father!"  replied  Ly don,  somewhat  impatiently; 
*'  thou  Las  picked  up  in  tliis  new  creed  of  thine,  of  which  I  pray 
thee  not  to  speak  to  me,  for  the  gods  that  gave  me  strength 
denied  me  wisdom,  and  I  understand  not  one  word  of  what  thou 
often  preachest  to  me— thou  hast  picked  up,  I  say,  in  this  new 
creed,  some  singular  fantasies  of  right  and  wrong.  Pardon  me, 
if  I  offend  thee:  but  reflect!  Against  whom  shall  I  contend?  Oh! 
couldst  thoi  know  those  wretches  with  whom,  for  thy  sake,  I 
assort,  thoL  would  think  I  purified  earth  by  removing  one  of 
them.  Beasts,  whose  very  lips  drop  blood;  things,  all  savage, 
unprincipled  in  their  very  courage;  ferocious,  heartless,  sense- 
less; no  tie  of  life  can  bind  them;  they  know  not  fear,  it  is  true 
^but  neither  know  they  gratitude,  nor  charity,  nor  love;  they 
are  made  but  for  thexr  own  career,  to  slaughter  without  pity,  to 
die  witho'it  dread  I  Can  thy  gods,  whosoever  they  be,  look  with 
wrath  on  a  conflict  with  such  as  these,  and  in  such  a  cause?  Oh, 
my  father,  wherever  the  powers  above  gaze  down  on  earth,  they 
behold  no  duty  so  sacred,  so  sanctifying,  as  the  sacrifice  offered 
to  an  agec  parent  by  the  piety  of  a  grateful  son?" 

The  poor  old  plave,  himself  deprived  of  the  lights  of  knowl- 
edge, and  only  iate  a  convert  to  the  Christian  faith,  knew  not 
with  what  arf^lnents  to  enlighten  an  ignorance  at  once  so  dark, 
and  yet  a)  beautiful  in  its  error.  His  first  impulse  was  to  throw 
himself  on  Ms  son's  breast— his  next  to  start  away— to  wring 
his  hand?;  and  in  the  attempt  to  reprove,  his  broken  voice  lost 
itself  in  V/eping. 

"And  i,"  resumed  Lydon— ""thy  Deity  (methinks  thou  wilt 
own  but  one?)  be  indeed  that  benevolent  and  pitying  Power 
which  thou  assertest  Him  to  be,  He  will  know  also  that  thy  very 
faith  in  Him  first  confirmed  me  in  that  determination  thou 
blamest.' 
"  Ho\^?  what  mean  you?"  said  the  slave. 

"  Whj,  thou  knowest  that  I,  sold  in  my  childhood  as  a  slave 
was  set  free  at  Eome  by  the  will  of  my  master,  whom  I  had 
been  fortunate  enough  to  please.  I  hastened  to  Pompeii  to 
see  thee— I  found  thee  already  aged  and  infirm,  under  the  yoke 
of  %  capricious  and  pampered  lord— thou  hadst  lately  adopted 
this  new  faith,  and  its  adoption  made  the  slavery  doubly  painful 
to  tliee:  it  took  away  all  the  softening  charm  of  custom,  which 
reconciles  us  often  to  the  worst.  Didst  thou  not  complain  to  me, 
that  thou  wert  compelled  to  offices  that  were  not  odious  to  thee 
as  a  slave,  but  guiltv  as  a  Nazarene?  Didst  thou  not  tell  me  that 
thy  soul  shook  with  remorse  when  thou  wert  compelled  to  place 
even  a  crumb  of  cake  before  the  Lares  that  watch  over  yon  im- 
pluvium?  that  thy  soul  was  torn  by  a  perpetual  struggle?  Didst 
thou  not  tell  me,  that  even  by  pouring  wine  before  the  threshold, 
and  calling  on  the  name  of  some  Grecian  deity,  thou  didst  fear 
thou  wert  incurring  penalties  worse  than  those  of  Tantalus,  an 
eternity  of  tortures  more  terrible  than  those  of  the  Tartarian 
fields?  Didst  thou  not  tell  me  this?  I  wondered,  I  could  not 
comprehend:  nor,  by  Hercules!  can  I  now:  but  I  was  thy  son, 
and  my  sole  task  was  to  compassionate  and  relieve.  Could  I 
hear  thy  groans,  could  I  witneiss  thy  mysterious  horrors,  thy 


140  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

constant  anguish,  and  remain  inactive?  Nol  by  the  i/nmortal 
godsl  the  thought  struck  me  like  light  from  Olympus!  I  had  no 
money,  but  I  had  strength  and  youth — these  were  n^  gifts— I 
could  sell  these  in  my  turn  for  thee!  I  learned  the  ^mouut  of 
thy  ransom — I  leanaed  that  the  usual  prize  of  a  victoiious  gladia- 
tor would  doubly  pay  it.  I  became  a  gladiator — I  liiiked  myself 
■with  those  accursed  men,  scorning,  loathing  while  I  joined — I 
acquired  their  skill — blessed  be  the  lesson! — for  it  shill  teach  me 
to  free  my  father."  j 

"Oh,  that  thou  couldst  hear  Olinthus!"  sighed  tie  old  man, 
more  and  more  affected  by  the  virtue  of  his  son,  but  not  less 
Btrongly  convinced  of  the  criminality  of  his  purpose. 

"  I  ^\'ill  hear  tlie  whole  world  talk^  if  thou  wilt,"  amwered  the 
gladiator,  gay ly;  "but  not  till  thou  art  a  slave  no  mi)re.  Be- 
neath thy  own  roof,  my  father,  thou  shalt  puzzle  thisfdull  brain 
all  day  long,  ay,  and  all  night,  too,  if  it  give  thee  x^i^amre.  Oh, 
such  a  spot  as  1  have  chalked  out  for  thee! — it  is  one  ♦f  the  nine 
hundred  and  ninety-nine  shops  of  old  Julia  Felix,  inthe  sunny 

Sart  of  the  city,  where  thou  mayst  bask  before  the  door  in  the 
ay — and  I  will  sell  the  oil  and  the  wine  for  thee,  my^  father — 
and  then,  please  Venus  (or  if  it  does  not  please  her,  since  thou 
lovest  not  her  name,  it  is  all  one  to  Lydon;) — then,  I  sa^,  perhaps 
thou  mayst  have  a  daughter,  too,  to  tend  thy  gray  laii's,  and 
hear  shrill  voices  at  thy  knee,  that  shall  call  thee  *  Lydon's  fa- 
ther!' Ah,  we  shall  be  so  happy — the  prize  can  purchase  all. 
Cheer  thee!  cheer  up,  my  su*e.  And  now  I  must  a^ay;  day 
wears,  the  lanista  waits  me.     Come,  thy  blessing!'' 

As  Lydon  thus  spoke,  he  had  already  quitted  the  darkchamber 
of  his  father;  and  speaking  eagerly,  though  in  a  whispered  tone 
they  now  stood  at  the  same  place  in  which  we  introcuced  the 
porter  at  his  post. 

*'  O  bless  thee!  bless  thee,  my  brave  boy!"  said  Medon,  fervent- 
ly; "and  may  the  great  Power  that  reads  all  hearts  see  the  noble- 
ness of  thine,  and  forgive  its  error!" 

The  tall  shape  of  the  gladiator  passed  swiftly  down  the  path; 
the  eyes  of  the  slave  followed  its  light  but  stately  steps,  till  the 
last  ghmpse  was  gone;  and  then  sinking  once  more  on  his  stat, 
his  eyes  again  fastened  themselves  on  the  ground.  His  fonn, 
mute  and  unmoving,  as  a  thing  of  stone.  His  heart!  who  in  cur 
hapi)ier  age,  can  even  imagine  its  struggles,  its  commotion?" 

"Mav  I  enter?"  said  a  sweet  voice.  "  Is  thy  mistress  Julia 
witliin?" 

The  slave  mechanically  motioned  to  the  visitor  to  enter,  bu^ 
she  who  addressed  him  could  not  see  the  gestiue;  she  repeated 
her  rmestiou  timidly,  but  in  a  louder  voice. 

"  Have  I  not  told  thee?"  said  the  slave,  peevishly;  "  enter.'* 

"Thanks,"  said  the  si>eaker,  plaintively;  and  the  slave,  roused 
by  the  tone,  looked  up,  and  recognized  the  blind  flower-girl. 
Sorrow  can  sympathize  with  affliction;  he  raised  himself,  and 
guided  her  steps  to  the  head  of  the  adjacent  staircase  (by  which 
you  descended  to  Julia's  apartment),  where,  summoning  a  femala 
Wave,  he  consigned  to  her  the  charjfO  of  the  blind  girh 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  U\ 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

THE  DEBSSINGhROOM  OF  A  POMPEIAN  BEAUTY.— IMPORTANT 
CONVERSATION  BETWEEN  JULIA  AND  NYDIA. 

The  elegant  Julia  sat  in  her  chamber,  with  her  slaves  around 
her— like  the  cubiculuin  which  adjoined  it,  the  room  was  small, 
but  much  larger  than  the  usual  apartments  appropriated  to  sleep, 
which  were  so  diminutive,  that  few  who  have  not  seen  the  bed- 
chambers, even  in  the  gayest  mansions,  can  form  any  notion  of i 
the  petty  pigeon-holes  in  which  the  citizens  of  Pompeii  evidently 
thought  it  desirable  to  pass  the  night.  But,  in  fact,  "  bed"  with 
the  ancients  was  not  that  grave,  serious,  and  important  part  of 
domestic  mysteries  wldch  it  is  with  us.  The  couch  itself  was  more 
like  a  very  narrow  and  small  sofa,  light  enough  to  be  transport- 
ed easily,  and  by  the  occupant  himself,  from  place  to  place;  and 
it  was,  no  doubt,  constantly  shifted  from  chamber  to  chamber, 
according  to  the  caprices  of  the  inmate,  or  tlie  changes  of  the 
season;  for  that  side  of  the  house  which  was  crowded  in  one 
month,  might,  perhaps,  be  carefully  avoided  in  the  next.  There 
was  also  among  the  Italians  of  that  period  a  singular  and  fastidi- 
ous apprehension  of  too  muchdayhght;  their  darkened  chambers, 
which  first  appear  to  us  the  result  of  a  negligent  architecture, 
were  the  effect  of  the  most  elaborate  study.  In  their  porticos 
and  gardens,  they  courted  the  sun  whenever  it  so  pleased  their 
luxurious  tastes.  In  the  interior  of  their  houses  they  sought 
rather  the  coolness  and  the  shade. 

Julia's  apartment  at  that  season  was  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
house,  immediately  beneath  the  state-rooms  above,  and  looking 
upon  the  garden,  with  which  it  was  on  the  level.  The  wide  door 
which  was  glazed,  alone  admitted  the  morning  rays;  yet  her 
eye,  accustomed  to  a  certain  darkness,  was  sufficiently  acute  to 
perceive  exactly  what  colors  were  the  most  becoming — what 
shade  of  the  delicate  rouge  gave  the  brightest  beam  to  her  dark 
glance,  and  the  most  youthful  freshness  to  her  cheek. 

On  the  table,  before  which  she  sat,  was  a  small  and  circular 
mirror  of  the  most  pohshed  steel;  round  which,  in  precise  order, 
were  ranged  the  cosmetics  and  the  unguents — the  perfumes  and 
the  paints — the  jewels  and  the  combs — the  ribbons  and  the  gold 
pins,  wliich  were  destined  to  add  to  the  natural  attractions  of 
beauty  the  assistance  of  art  and  the  capricious  allurements  ol 
fashion.  Through  the  dimness  of  the  room  glowed  brightly  the 
vivid  and  various  colorings  of  the  wall,  in  all  the  dazzling  fres^ 
coes  of  Pompeian  taste.  Before  the  dressing-table,  and  under 
the  feet  of  Julia,  was  spread  a  carpet,  woven  from  the  looms  of 
the  East. 

Near  at  hand,  on  another  table,  was  a  silver  basin  and  ewer; 
an  extinguished  lamp,  of  most  exquisite  workmanship,  in  which 
the  artist  had  rei^resented  a  Cupid  reposing  under  the  spreading 
branches  of  a  myrtle  tree;  and  a  small  roll  of  papyrus,  contain- 
ing the  softest  elegies  of  Tibullus.  Before  the  door,  which  com- 
Bauaicated  with  the  cubiculum,  hu»g  a  curtain  ricltty  Iwciwdered 


m  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

with  gold  flowers.  Such  was  the  dressing-room  of  a  baauty 
eighteen  centuries  ago. 

Tlie  fair  Julia  leaned  indolently  back  on  hor  seat,  while  the  or- 
natrix  {i.e.  hair-dresser)  slowly  piled,  one  above  the  other,  a  mass 
of  small  curls;  dexterously  weaving  the  false  with  the  true,  and 
carrying  the  whole  fabric  to  a  higlit  that  seemed  to  place  the 
head  rather  at  the  center  than  the  summit  of  the  human  form. 

Her  tunic,  of  a  deep  amber,  which  well  set  olf  her  dark  hair 
and  somewhat  imljrowned  complexion,  swept  in  ample  folds  to 
Iier  feet,  which  were  cased  in  slippers,  fastened  round  the  slender 
ankle  by  white  thongs;  while  a  profusion  of  i>earls  were  em- 
broidered in  the  slipper  itself,  whicli  was  of  purple,  and  turned 
slightly  upward,  as  do  the  Turkish  slippers  at  this  day.  An  old 
slave,  skilled  by  long  experience  in  all  the  arcana  of  the  toilet, 
stood  beside  the  hair-dresser,  with  the  broad  and  studded  gu'dlo 
of  her  mistress  over  her  arm,  and  giving,  from  time  to  time 
(mingled  with  judicious  flattery  to  the  lady  herself),  instructions 
to  the  mason  of  the  ascending  pile. 

*'  Put  tliat  pin  rather  more  to  the  right — lower — stupid  onel 
Do  you  not  observe  how  even  those  beautiful  eyebrows  are? 
One  would  think  you  were  dressing  Corinna,  whose  face  is  all  of 
one  side.  Now,  put  in  the  flowers — wliat,  fool! — not  that  dull 
pink — you  are  not  suiting  colors  to  the  dim  cheek  of  Chloris;  it 
must  be  tha  brightest  flowers  that  can  alone  suit  the  cheek  of 
the  young  Julia." 

"Gently!"  said  the  lady,  stamping  her  small  foot  violently: 
"  you  pull  my  hair  as  if  you  were  plucking  u})  a  weed!" 

"  Dull  thing!"  continued  the  directress  of  the  ceremony.  *'  Do 
j'ou  not  know  how  delicate  is  your  mistress? — you  are  not  dress- 
ing the  coarse  horsehair  of  the  widow  Fulvia.  Now,  then,  the 
ribbon — that's  right.  Fair  Julia,  look  in  the  mirror;  saw  you 
ever  anything  so  lovely  as  yourself?" 

When  after  innumerable  comments,  difficulties  and  delays,  the 
intricate  tower  was  at  length  completed,  tlie  next  preparation 
was  that  of  giving  to  the  eyes  the  soft  languish,  produced  by  a 
black  powder  applied  to  the  lids  and  brows;  a  small  patch  cut 
in  the  form  of  a  crescent,  skilfully  placed  by  the  rosy  lips,  attract- 
ed attention  to  their  dimples,  and  to  the  teeth,  to  which  already 
every  art  had  bee»>  apphed  in  order  to  highten  the  dazzle  of 
their  natural  whit-mess. 

To  anotlier  slave,  hitherto  idle,  was  now  consigned  the  charge 
of  arranging  the  jewels — the  earrings  of  pearl  (two  to  each  ear)— 
the  massive  bracelets  of  gold — the  chain  formed  of  rings  of  the 
same  metal,  to  wliich  a  talisman  cut  in  crystals  was  attached— 
the  graceful  buckle  on  the  left  shoulder,  in  which  was  set  an 
exquisite  cameo  of  Psyche — the  girdle  of  purple  ribbon,  ricldy 
wrought  with  threads'  of  gold,  and  clasped  by  interlacing  ser- 
pents— and  lastly,  the  various  rings  fitted  to  every  joint  of  the 
white  and  slender  fiu;;ers.  Tlie  toilet  was  now  arranged,  accord- 
ing to  the  last  mode  of  Rome.  The  fair  Julia  regarded  herself 
with  a  last  gaze  of  comj^lacent  vanity,  and  reclining  again  \\\)on 
her  seat,  she  bade  the  youngest  of  her  slaves,  in  a  listless  tone, 
read  to  her  the  enauiored  couplets  of  Tibullus.    This  lecture 


fJHH  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPETT, ^  U% 

Was  sfill  proceeding,  when  a  female  slave  admitted  Nydia  into 
the  presence  of  the  lady  of  the  place. 

""^  Salve,  JuHal"  said  the  flower  girl,  arresting  her  steps  within 
a  few  paces  from  the  spot  where  Julia  sat,  and  crossing  her  arms 
upon  her  breast.     "  I  have  obeyed  your  commands." 

"  You  have  done  well,  flower-girl,"  answered  the  lady. 
"  Approach — you  may  take  a  seat." 

One  of  the  slaves  placed  a  stool  by  Julia,  and  Nydia  seated 
herself. 

Julia  looked  hard  at  the  Thessalian  for  some  moments  in  rather 
an  embaiTassed  silence.  She  then  motioned  her  attendants  to 
withdraw,  and  to  close  the  door.  When  they  were  alone,  she 
said,  looking  mechanical]}^  from  Nydia,  and  forgetful  that  she 
was  with  one  who  could  not  observe  her  countenance 

"  You  serve  the  Neapohtan,  lone?" 

*'I  am  with  her  at  present,"  answered  Nydia. 

"  Is  she  as  handsome  as  they  say?" 

**  I  know  not,"  repKed  Nydia.    '"  How  can  I  judge?*' 

*' Ahl  I  should  have  remembered.  But  thou  hast  ears,  if  not 
eyes.  Do  thy  fellow  slaves  tell  thee  she  is  handsome?  Slaves 
talking  with  one  another  forget  to  flatter  even  their  mistress." 

*'  They  tell  me  that  she  is  beautiful." 

*'Hem — say  they  that  she  is  tall?" 

"Yes." 

*'Why,  soaml.    Dark-haired?'* 

*'I  have  heard  so." 

*'  So  am  I.    And  doth  Glaucus  visit  her  much?" 

"  Daily,"  returned  Nydia,  with  a  half -suppressed  sigli. 

"  Daily,  indeed!    Does  he  find  her  handsome?" 

*'  I  should  think  so,  since  they  are  soon  to  be  wedded." 

*'  Vv^edded!"  cried  JuHa,  turning  pale  even  through  the  false 
roses  on  her  cheek,  and  starting  from  her  couch.  Nydia  did  not, 
of  course,  perceive  the  emotion  she  had  caused.  Julia  remained 
a  long  time  silent;  but  her  heaving  breast  and  flashing  eyes 
would  have  betrayed  her  to  one  who  could  have  seen  the  wound 
her  vanity  sustained. 

*'  They  tell  me  thou  art  a  Thessalian,"  said  she,  at  last  break- 
ing silence. 

"And  truly!" 

"  Thessaly  is  the  land  of  magic  and  of  witches,  of  talismans 
and  of  love-philters,"  said  Julia. 

"It  has  ever  been  celebrated  for  its  sorcerers,"  retiu-ned  Nydia, 
timidly. 

"  Knowest  thou  then,  blind  Thessalian,  of  any  love  charms?" 

"I!"  said  the  flower-girl,  coloring;  "I.'  how  should  I?  No,  as- 
suredly not!" 

"  The  worse  for  thee;  I  could  have  given  thee  gold  enough  to 
have  purchased  thy  freedom,  hadst  thou  been  more  wise." 

"But  what,"  asked  Nydia,  "can  induce  the  beautiful  and 
wealthy  Julia  to  ask  that  question  of  her  servant?  Has  she  not 
money  and  youth  and  loveliness?  Are  they  not  love  charms 
enough  to  dispense  witli  magic?" 

**  To  all  but  one  person  in  the  world,"  answered  Julia,  haught- 


144  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPmi. 

ily;  **  but  metliinks  tliy  blindness  is  infectious;  and^  but  116 
matter." 

*'•  And  that  one  person?"  said  Nydia,  eagerly. 

**  Is  not  Glaucus,"  replied  Julia,  with  the  customary  deceit  o 
her  sex.    *'  Glaucus — no!" 

Nydia  drew  her  breath  more  freely,  and  after  a  short  pause 
Julia  recommenced. 

"But  talking  of  Glaucus,  and  his  attachment  to  this  Neapoli- 
tan, reminded  me  of  the  influence  of  love-spells,  wliicli,  for  aught 
I  know  or  care,  she  may  have  exercised  upon  him.  Blind  girl  ; 
I  love,  and — shall  Julia  live  to  say  it?— -am  loved  not  in  return  I 
This  humbles — nay,  not  humhles — but  it  stings  my  pride.  I  would 
Bee  this  ingrate  at  my  feet — not  in  order  that  I  might  raise,  but 
that  I  might  spurn  him.  When  they  told  me  thou  wert  Tlies- 
Balian,  I  imagined  thy  young  mind  might  have  learned  the  dark 
secrets  of  thy  clime." 

'*  Alas  1  no,"  murmured  Nydia ;  "  would  it  had  I" 

"Thanks,  at  least  for  that  kindly  wish,"  said  Julia,  uncon* 
Bcious  of  what  was  passing  in  the  breast  of  the  flower-girL 

**  But  tell  me — thou  hearest  the  gossip  of  slaves,  always  prone 
to  these  dim  beliefs  ;  always  ready  to  apply  to  sorcery  for  their 
own  low  loves — hast  thou  ever  heard  of  any  Eastern  magician  in 
this  city,  who  possesses  the  art  of  which  thou  art  ignorant  ?  No 
vain  chiromancer,  no  juggler  of  the  market-place,  but  some 
more  potent  and  mighty  magician  of  India  or  Egypt  ?" 

*' Of  Egypt  ?— yes  !"  said  Nydia,  shuddering.  "What  Pom- 
peian  has  not  heard  of  Arbaces  ?" 

"Arbacesl  true,"  replied  Julia,  grasping  at  the  recollection. 
"  They  say  he  is  a  man  above  all  the  petty  and  false  impostures 
of  dull  pretenders — that  he  is  versed  in  the  learning  of  the  stars, 
and  the  secrets  of  the  ancient  Nox ;  why  not  in  the  mysteries  of 
love?" 

"If  there  be  one  magician  living  whose  art  is  above  that  of 
others  it  is  that  dread  man,"  answered  Nydia ;  and  she  felt  her 
talisman  while  she  spoke. 

"He  is  too  wealthy  to  divine  for  money?"  continued  Julia, 
sneeringly.     "  Can  I  not  visit  him  ?" 

"  It  is  an  evil  mansion  for  the  young  and  the  beautiful,"  replied 
Nydia.     "I  have  heard,  too,  that  he  languishes  in " 

"  An  evil  mansion  I"  said  Julia,  catching  only  the  first  sentence. 
"Why  so?** 

"  The  orgies  of  his  midnight  leisure  are  impure  and  polluted— 
at  least,  so  says  rumor." 

"  By  Ceres,  by  Pan,  and  by  Cybele  I  thou  dost  but  provoke  my 
curiosity,  instead  of  exciting  my  fears,"  returned  the  wayward 
and  pampered  Pompeian.  '*  I  %vill  seek  and  question  him  of  his 
lore.  If  to  these  orgies  love  be  admitted,  why,  the  more  likely 
that  he  knows  its  secrets  I" 

Nydia  did  not  answer. 

"I  will  seek  hLin  this  very  day,"  resumed  Julia;  '* nay,  why 
not  this  very  hour?" 

"  At  daylight,  in  his  present  state,  thou  hast  assuredly  the  less 
^  fear,"  answered  Nydia,  yielding  to  her  sudden  and  secret  wiali 


TSE  LAST  DATS  OT  POMPEII.  149 

tb  leam  if  the  dark  Egyptian  wero  indeed  possessed  of  tliose 
spells  to  rivet  and  attract  love,  of  wliich  the  Thessalian  had  so 
often  heard. 

♦'And  who  dare  insult  the  rich  daughter  of  Diomed?"  said  Julia, 
haughtily.     ♦'  I  will  go." 

"May  I  visit  thee  afterward  to  learn  the  result?"  asked  Nydia, 
anxiously. 

*♦  Kiss  me  for  thy  interest  in  Julia's  honor,"  answered  the  lady. 
"Yes,  assuredly.  This  eve  we  sup  abroad — come  hither  at  the 
same  hour  to-morrow,  and  thou  shalt  know  all;  I  may  have  to 
employ  thee  too;  but  enough  for  the  present.  Stay,  take  this 
bracelet  for  the  new  thought  thou  liast  inspired  me  with;  remem- 
ber, if  thou  servest  Julia  she  is  grateful  and  she  is  generous." 

"I  cannot  take  thy  present,"  said  Nydia,  putting  aside  the 
bracelet;  "but  young  as  I  am,  I  can  sympathize  un bought  with 
those  who  love — and  love  in  vain." 

"  Sayest  thou  so?"  returned  JuUa.  "  Thou  speakest  like  a  free 
"^^oman,  and  thou  shalt  yet  be  free — fare  well  I" 


CHAPTER  Vin. 

JTILIA.  SEEKS  AUBACES — THE  RESULT  OP  THAT  INTERVIEW. 

Arbaces  was  seated  in  a  chamber^  wliich  opened  on  a  kind  of 
balcony  or  portico,  that  fronted  his  garden.  His  cheek  was  pale 
and  worn  with  the  sufferings  he  had  endured,  but  his  iron  frame 
had  already  recovered  from  the  severest  effects  of  that  accident 
which  had  frustrated  his  fell  designs  in  the  moment  of  victory. 
The  air  that  came  fragrantly  to  his  brow  revived  his  languid 
senses,  and  the  blood  circulated  more  freely  than  it  had  done  for 
days  tlu-ough  his  shrunken  veins. 

"So,  then,"  thought  he,  "the  storm  of  fate  has  broken  and 
blown  over — the  evil  which  my  lore  predicted,  threatening  life 
itself,  has  chanced — and  yet  I  hve!  It  came  as  the  stars  foretold; 
and  now  the  long,  bright,  and  prosperous  career  which  was  to 
succeed  that  evil,  if  I  survived  it,  smiles  beyond;  I  have  passed— 
I  have  subdued  the  latest  danger  of  my  destiny.  Now  I  have  but 
to  lay  out  the  gardens  of  my  future  fate — unteirified  and  secure. 
First,  then,  of  all  my  pleasures,  even  before  that  of  love,  shall 
come  revenge!  This  boy  Greek—  who  has  crossed  my  passion — 
thwarted  my  designs — bafSed  me  even  when  the  blade  was  about 
to  drink  his  accursed  blood — shall  not  a  second  time  escape  me! 
But  for  the  method  of  my  vengeance?  Of  that  let  me  ponder 
well?  Oh!  Ate,  if  thou  art  indeed  a  goddess,  fill  me  with  thy 
direst  inspiration!"  The  Egyptian  saiik  into  an  intent  revery, 
which  did  not  seem  to  present  to  him  any  clear  or  satisfactory 
suggestions.  He  changed  his  position  restlessly,  as  he  revolved 
scheme  after  scheme,  which  no  sooner  occurred  than  it  was  dis- 
missed; several  times  he  struck  his  breast  and  groaned  aloud, 
with  the  desire  of  vengeance  and  a  sense  of  his  impotence  to  ac- 
complish it.  While  thus  absorbed  a  boy  slave  timidly  entered 
the  chamber. 

A  female,  evidently  of  rank,  from  her  dress  aiid  that  of  a  sis 


m  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII 

gle  slave  ^vho  attended  her,  waited  below  and  sought  an  ajudienoA 
with  Arbaces. 

*•  A  female!"  his  heart  beat  quick.     "  Is  she  young  ?" 

"  Her  face  is  conceale<l  by  a  veil;  but  her  fonn  is  slight,  yet 
round  as  that  of  youth." 

"Admit  lier!''  said  tlie  Egyptian;  for  a  moment  his  vain  heart 
dreamed  the  stranger  might  be  lone. 

The  first  glance  of  the  vi.sitor  now  entering  the  apartment  suf- 
ficed to  undeceive  eo  errmg  a  fancy.  Time,  she  was  about  th« 
same  liight  as  lone,  and  perhaps  the  same  age — true,  she  was 
finely  and  riclily  formed — but  where  was  that  undulating  and  in- 
effable grace  which  accompanied  every  motion  of  the  peerless 
Neapolitan — the  chaste  and  decorous  garb,  so  simple  even  in  the 
care  of  its  aiTangement -the  dignified,  yet  bashful  step — the 
majesty  of  womanhood  and  its  modesty? 

'*  Pardon  me  that  I  rise  with  pain,"  said  Arbaces,  gazing  on  tha 
stranger.     *'  I  am  still  suffering  from  recent  illness." 

•*Do  not  disturb  thyself,  O  great  Egyptian!"  returned  Julia, 
seeking  to  disguise  the  fear  she  already  experienced  beneath  ths 
ready  resort  of  fiatteiy;  and  forgive  an  unfortunate  female,  who 
seeks  consolation  from  thy  wisdom." 

"  Draw  near,  fair  stranger,"  said  Arbaces;  **and  speak  without 
apprehension  or  reserve." 

Julia  placed  herself  on  a  seat  beside  the  Egyptian,  and  won- 
deringly  gazed  around  an  af>artment  whose  elaborate  and  costly 
luxuries  shamed  even  the  oniate  enrichment  of  her  father's 
mansion;  fearfully,  too,  she  regarded  the  hieroglyphical  inscrip- 
tions on  the  walls — the  faces  of  tlie  mysterious  images,  which  at 
every  corner  gazed  upon  lier — the  tripod  at  a  little  distance — 
and,  above  all,  the  grave  and  remarkable  countenance  of  Arba- 
ces liimself;  a  long  white  robe,  Hke  a  veil,  half  covered  his 
raven  locks,  and  flowed  to  his  feet;  his  face  was  made  even 
more  impressive  by  its  present  paleness;  and  his  dark  and  pene- 
trating eyes  seemed  to  pierce  the  slielter  of  her  veil,  and  explore 
the  secrets  of  her  vain  and  unfeminine  soul. 

**  And  what,"  said  his  low,  deep  voice,  "  brings  thee,  O  maidenl 
to  the  house  of  the  Eastern  stranger?" 

*'  His  fame."  replied  Julia. 

*'  In  what?"  said  he,  with  a  strange  and  slight  smile. 

"Canst  thou  ask.  O  wise  Ar})achs?  Is  not  thy  knowledge  the 
Tery  gossip  theme  of  Pompeii  ?" 

"Some  little  lore  have  I,  indeed,  treasured  up,"  replied  Arba- 
ces; "  but  in  what  can  such  serious  and  sterile  secrets  benefit  the 
ear  of  beauty  ?" 

"  Alas!"  said  Julia,  a  little  cheered  by  the  accustomed  accents 
of  adulation;  "  does  not  sorrow  fly  to  wisdom  for  relief,  and 
thev  who  love  unrcquitedly,  are  not  they  the  chosen  victims  of 
grief?" 

"  Ha  !"  said  Arbaces,  "  can  unrequited  love  be  the  lot  of  so 
fair  a  form,  whose  modeled  proportions  are  visible  even  beneath 
the  folds  of  thy  graceful  robe?  Deign,  O  maiden!  to  lift  thy 
veil,  that  I  may  see  at  least  if  the  face  correspond  in  loveliness 
With  the  form," 


THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEII,  UT 

Not  unwilling',  perhaps,  to  exhibit  her  charms,  and  thinking 
they  were  likely  to  interest  the  magiciau  in  her  fate,  Juha,  after 
some  slight  hesitation,  raised  her  veil,  and  revealed  a  beauty 
"which,  but  for  art,  had  been  indeed  attractive  to  the  fixed  gaze 
of  the  Egyptian. 

"Thoucomest  to  me  for  advice  in  unliappy  love,"  said  he; 
"  well,  turn  that  face  on  the  ungrateful  one;  what  other  charm 
can  I  give  thee?" 

*'  Oh,  cease  these  courtesies!"  said  Julia;  "  it  is  a  love-charmj 
indeed,  that  I  would  ask  from  thy  skill." 

"Fair  stranger,"  replied  Arbaces,  somewhat  scornfully, 
**  love-spells  are  not  among  the  secrets  I  have  wasted  the  mid- 
night oil  to  attain." 

"Is  it  indeed  so?  Then  pardon  me,  great  Arbaces,  and  fare- 
well." 

"Stay,"  sail  Arbaces,  who,  despite  his  passion  for  lone,  was 
not  unmoved  by  the  beauty  of  his  visitor;  and  had  he  been  in  the 
Ihish  of  a  more  assured  health,  might  have  attempted  to  console 
the  fair  Julia  by  other  means  than  those  of  supernatural  wis- 
dom  

"  Stay;  although  I  confess  that  I  have  left  the  witchery  of  phil- 
ters and  potions  to  those  w^hose  trade  is  in  such  knowledge,  yet 
am  I  myself  not  so  dull  to  beauty  but  that  in  earlier  yoii  "- 1  may 
have  employed  them  in  my  own  belialf .  I  may  giv  3  thee  advice, 
at  least,  if  thou  will  be  candid  with  me.  Tell  me  then,  first,  art 
thou  unmarried,  as  thy  dress  betokens?" 

"Yes,"  said  Julia. 

"  And,  being  unblest  with  foi*tune,  wouldst  thou  allure  some 
wealthy  suitor?' 

"  I  am  richer  than  he  who  disdains  me." 

"  Strange  and  more  strange  I  And  thou  lovest  him  who  loves 
not  thee?" 

"  I  know  not  if  I  love  liim,"  answered  Julia,  haughtily;  "  but  I 
know  that  I  would  see  myself  triumph  over  a  rival — I  would  see 
him  who  rejected  me  my  suitor — I  would  see  her  whom  he  has 
preferred,  in  her  tm-n  despised." 

"A  natural  ambition  and  a  womanly,"  said  the  Egyptian,  in  a 
tone  too  grave  for  irony.  "Yet  more,  fair  maiden;  wilt  thou 
confide  to  me  the  name  of  thy  lover?  Can  he  be  Pompeian,  and 
despise  wealth,  even  if  blind  to  beauty?" 

"  He  is  of  Athens,"  answered  Julia,  looking  down. 

"Hal"  cried  the  Egyptain,  impetuously,  as  the  blood  rushed 
to  his  cheek;  "there  is  but  one  Athenian,  young  and  noble,  in 
Pompeii.     Can  it  be  Glaucus  of  whom  thou  speakest?" 

"  Ah!  betray  me  not — so  indeed  they  call  him." 

The  Egyptian  sank  back,  gazing  vacantly  on  the  averted  face 
jf  the  mercliant's  daughter,  and  muttering  inly  to  himself;  this 
conference,  with  which  he  had  hitherto  only  trifled,  amusing 
himself  with  the  credulity  and  vanity  of  his  visitor — might  it  not 
minister  to  his  revenge? 

"I  see  thou  canst  assist  me  not,"  said  Julia,  offended  by  Ms 
continued  silence;  "guard  at  least  my  secret.  Once  more,  far©' 
Weill" 


148  THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEH, 

** Maiden,"  said  the  Egyptian,  in  an  earnest  and  serious  tone, 
**  thy  suit  hath  touched  me — I  will  minister  to  thy  will.  Listen 
to  me:  I  liave  not  myself  dabbled  in  these  lesser  mysteries,  but 
I  know  one  who  hath.  At  the  base  of  Vesuvius,  less  than  a 
league  from  the  city,  there  dweUs  a  powerful  witch;  beneath  the 
rank  dews  of  the  new  moon,  she  lias  gatiiered  the  herbs  which  pos- 
sess the  virtue  to  cljaiu  love  in  eternal  fetters.  Her  art  can  bring 
thy  lover  to  thy  feet.  Seek  her,  and  mention  to  her  the  name  of 
Arbaces;  she  fears  that  name,  and  will  give  thee  her  most  potent 
philters." 

♦'  Alas!"  answered  Julia,  "  I  know  not  the  road  to  the  home  of 
her  whom  thou  speakest  of;  the  way,  short  though  it  be,  is  long 
to  traverse  for  a  girl  who  leaves,  unknown,  the  house  of  her 
father.  The  country  is  entangled  with  ^vild  \dnes,  and  danger- 
ous precijDitous  caverns.  I  dare  not  trust  to  mere  strangers  to  guide 
me;  the  reputation  of  women  of  my  rank  is  easily  tarnished — 
and  though  I  care  not  who  knows  that  I  love  Glaucus,  I  would 
not  have  it  imagined  that  I  obtained  his  love  by  a  spell." 

*'  Were  I  but  three  days  advanced  in  health,"  said  the  Egyptian, 
rising  and  walking  (as  if  to  try  his  strength)  across  the  chamber, 
but  with  irregular  and  feeble  steps,  "  I  myself  would  accompany 
thee. — Well,  thou  must  wait." 

*'  But  Glaucus  is  soon  to  wed  that  hated  Neapolitanr 

«'Wedr 

•*  Yes;  in  the  early  part  of  next  month." 

**  So  soon  I    Art  thou  well  advised  of  this?" 

**  From  the  lips  of  her  own  slave." 

"It  shall  not  be!"  said  the  Egyptian,  impetuously.  "Fear 
nothing,  Glaucus  shall  be  thine.  Yet  how,  when  thou  obtainest 
it,  canst  thou  administer  to  him  this  potion?" 

"  My  father  has  invited  him,  and,  I  believe,  the  Neapolitan  also, 
to  a  banquet,  on  the  day  following  to-moiTOw;  I  shall  then  have 
an  opportunity  to  administer  it." 

"So  be  it!"  said  the  Egyptian,  with  eyes  flasliing  such  fierce 
joy,  that  Julia's  gaze  sank  trembling  'beneath  them.  "To- 
morrow eve,  then,  order  thy  litter — thou  hast  one  at  thy  com- 
mand?" 

"  Surely — ^yes,"  returned  the  purse-proud  Julia. 

"  Order  thy  litter— at  two  miles'  distance  from  the  city  is  a 
house  of  entertainment,  frequented  by  the  wealthier  Pompeians, 
from  the  excellence  of  its  baths  and  the  beauties  of  its  gardens. 
There  canst  thou  pretend  only  to  shape  thy  course — there,  ill  or 
dying,  I  will  meet  thee  by  the  statue  of  Silenus,  in  the  copse  that 
Bkirts  the  garden;  and  I  myself  will  guide  thee  to  the  witch. 
Let  us  wait  till,  with  the  evening  star,  the  goats  of  the  herdsmen 
are  gone  to  rest;  when  the  dark  twilight  conceals  us,  and  none 
ehall  cross  thy  steps.  Go  homo  and  fear  not.  By  Hades,  swears 
Arbaces,  the  sorcerer  of  Eg}'|)t,  that  lone  shall  never  wed  with 
Glaucus!" 

"  And  that  Glaucus  shall  be  mine?"  added  Julia,  filling  up  the 
incomplete  sentence. 

"  Thou  hast  said  it!"  replied  Arbaces;  and  Julia,  half  frighten- 
^  fl^t  tJbis  «nl*aU9w«d  iippoint»»ent,  but  urged  Qn  h^  jealousy 


7!^"^  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII,  140 

and  the  pique  of  rivalsliip,  even  more  than  love,  resolved  to  ful 

filit. 

Left  alone,  Arbaces  burst  forth: 

*'  Bright  stars  that  never  lie,  ye  already  begin  ihe  execution  of 
your  promises — success  in  love,  and  victoiy  over  foes  for  the  rest 
of  my  smooth  existence.  In  the  very  hour  when  my  mind  could 
devise  no  clew  to  the  goal  of  vengeance,  have  ye  sent  this  fair 
fool  for  my  guide." 

He  paused  in  deep  thought. 

"  Yes,"  said  he  again,  but  in  a  calmer  voice;  "I  could  not  my- 
self have  given  her  the  poison,  that  shall  be  indeed  a  philter— his 
death  might  be  traced  to  my  door.  But  the  witch— ay,  there  is 
the  fit,  the  natural  agent  of  my  designs  1" 

He  summoned  one  of  Ms  slaves,  bade  him  hasten  to  track  <\\e 
steps  of  Julia,  to  acquaint  himself  with  her  name  and  condition, 
riiis  done  he  stepped  forth  into  the  portico.  The  skies  were  se- 
rene and  clear;  but  he,  deeply  read  in  the  signs  of  their  various 
changes,  beheld  in  one  mass  of  cloud,  far  on  the  horizon,  which, 
the  wind  began  slowly  to  agitate,  that  a  storm  was  brooding 
above. 

"  It  is  like  my  vengeance,"  said  he,  as  he  gazed;  "the  sky  is 
iRlear,  but  the  clouds  move  on." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  STORM  IN  THE  SOUTH.— THE  WITCH'S  CAVERN. 

It  was  when  the  heat  of  noon  gradually  died  away  from  the 
'^ith,  that  Glaucus  and  lone  went  forth  to  enjoy  the  cooled  and 
grateful  air.  At  that  time  various  carriages  were  in  use  among 
the  Eomans;  the  one  most  used  by  the  richer  citizens,  when  they 
required  no  companion  in  their  excursions,  was  the  higa,  already 
described  in  the  early  part  of  this  work ;  that  appropriated  to  the 
matrons,  was  termed  carjjentum,  which  had  commonly  two 
wheels;  the  ancients  used  also  a  sort  of  htter,  a  vast  sedan-chair, 
more  commodiously  arranged  than  the  modern,  inasmuch 
as  the  occupant  thereof  could  lie  down  at  ease,  instead  of  being 
perpendicularly  and  stiffly  jostled  up  and  down.  There  was  an- 
other carriage,  used  both  for  traveling  and  excursions  in  the 
country;  it  was  commodious,  containing  three  or  four  persons 
with  ease,  having  a  covering  which  could  be  used  at  pleasure; 
and,  in  short,  answering  very  much  the  purpose  of  (though  very 
different  in  shape  from)  the  modern  britska. 

It  was  a  vehicle  of  this  description  that  the  lovers,  accompani- 
ed by  one  female  slave  of  lone,  now  used  in  their  excursion. 
About  ten  miles  from  the  city,  there  was  at  that  day  an  old  ruin, 
the  remains  of  a  temple,  evidently  Grecian;  and  as  for  Glaucus 
and  lone  everything  Grecian  possessed  an  interest,  they  had 
agreed  to  visit  these  ruins:  it  was  thither  they  were  now  bound. 

The  road  lay  among  vines  and  olive-groves;  till,  winding  more 
and  more  toward  the  higher  ground  of  Vesuvius,  the  path  grew 
rugged;  the  mules  moved  slowly,  and  with  labor;  and  at  every 
opening  in  the  wood  they  beheld  those  gray  and  horrent  caverns 
indenting  the  parched  rock,  which  Strab(>  has  described;  but 


IW  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIt 

which  the  various  revolutions  of  time  and  the  volcano  have  re- 
moved from  the  present  aspect  of  the  mountain.  The  sim,  slop" 
ing  toward  his  descent,  cast  long  and  deep  shadows  over  the 
mountain;  here  and  there  they  stiJl  heard  the  rustic  reed  of  the 
shepherd  among  copses  of  the  beechwood  and  wild-oak.  Some- 
times they  marked  the  form  of  the  silk-haired  and  graceful  ca- 
Eella,  with  its  wreathing  horn  and  bright  gray  eve— wiiich,  still 
eneath  Ausonian  skies,  recalls  the  eclogues  of  Maro — browsing 
half-way  up  the  hills;  and  the  giapes  already  purpling  with  the 
smiles  of  deepening  summer,  glowed  out  from  the  arched  fes- 
toons, which  hung  pendent  from  tree  to  tree.  Above  them, 
light  clouds  floated  in  the  serene  heavens,  sweeping  so  slowly 
athwart  the  fiiTaamentthat  they  scarcely  seemed  to  stir;  while, 
on  their  right  they  caught,  ever  anon,  glimpses  of  the  waveless 
sea,  with  some  hght  bark  skimming  its  surface;  and  the  simlight 
breaking  over  the  deep  in  those  countless  and  softest  hues  so 
peculiar  to  that  delicious  sea. 

'*  How  beautifull"  said  Glaucus,  in  a  half -whispered  tone,  **  is 
that  expression  by  wliich  we  call  Earth  our  Mother!  With  what 
a  kindly  equal  love  she  pours  her  blessings  upon  her  children! 
and  even  to  those  sterile  spots  to  which  JSature  has  denied  beau- 
ty, she  yet  contrives  to  dispense  her  smiles;  witness  the  aibutus 
and  the  vine,  which  she  wreathes  over  the  arid  and  burning 
soil  of  yon  extinct  volcano.  Ah!  in  such  an  hour  and  scene  as 
this,  well  might  we  imagine  that  the  laughing  face  of  the  Faun 
Bliould  peep  forth  from  those  green  festoons;  or,  that  we  might 
trace  the  steps  of  the  Mountain  Nymph  through  the  thickest 
mazes  of  the  glade.  But  the  Nymphs  ceased,  beautiful  lone, 
when  thov  wert  created!" 

There  is  no  ton^e  that  flatters  like  a  lover's;  and  yet,  in  the 
exaggeration  of  his  feelings,  flattery  seems  to  him  commonplace. 
Strange  and  prodigal  exuberance,  which  soon  exhausts  itself  by 
overflowing! 

They  arrived  at  the  ruins,  they  examined  them  with  that  fond- 
ness with  which  we  trace  the  hallowed  and  household  vestiges  of 
our  own  ancestry — they  lingered  there  till  Hespenis  appeared  in 
the  rosy  heavens  and  tlien  returning  homeward  in  the  twilight, 
they  were  more  silent  than  they  had  been  ;  for,  in  the  shadow 
and  beneath  the  stars,  they  felt  more  oppressively  their  mutual 
love. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  storm  which  the  Egyi^tian  had  pre* 
ill  ted  began  to  creep  visibly  over  them.  At  first  a  low  and  dis- 
tant thunder  gave  warning  of  the  approiachiug  conflict  of  the 
elements;  and  then  rapidly  rushed  above  the  dark  ranks  of  the 
serried  clouds.  The  Buddenneas  of  the  storms  in  that  climate  is 
something  almost  jireternatural,  and  might  well  suggest  to  early 
superstition  the  notion  of  a  divine  agency — a  few  large  drops 
broke  heavily  among  the  boughs  that  half  overhung  their  path, 
and  then,  swift  and  intolerably  bright,  the  forked  lightning 
darted  across  their  very  eyes,  and  was  swallowed  up  by  the  in- 
creasing darkness. 

"Swifter,  good  Camicarius T*  cried  Glaucus  to  the  driver 
"the  tempest  comes  on  apace." 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII,  151 

The  slave  surged  on  the  mules;  they  went  swift  over  the  un- 
even and  stony  road;  the  clouds  thickened,  near  and  more  near 
broke  the  thunder,  and  fast  rushed  the  dashing  rain. 

*'  Dost  thou  fear?"  whispered  Glaucus,  as  he  sought  excuse  iu 
the  storm  to  come  nearer  to  lone.  ''Not  with  thee,"  she  said, 
softly. 

At  tliat  instant,  the  carriage,  fragile  and  ill-contrived  (as,  de- 
spite their  graceful  shapes,  were,  for  practical  uses,  most  of  such 
inventions  at  that  time),  struck  violently  into  a  deep  rut,  over 
which  lay  a  log  of  fallen  wood;  the  driver,  with  a  curse,  stiniu- 
Jated  liis  mules  yet  faster  for  tlie  obstacle,  the  wheel  was  torn 
from  the  socket,  and  the  carriage  suddenly  overset. 

Glaucus,  quickly  extricating  himself  from  the  vehicle,  has- 
tened to  assist  lone,  who  was  fortunately  unhurt;  with  some 
difficulty  they  raised  the  carruca  (or  carriage),  and  found  that  it 
ceased  any  longer  even  to  afford  them  shelter;  the  springs  that 
fastened  the  covering uere  snapped  asunder, and  the  rain  poured 
fast  and  fiercely  into  the  interior. 

In  this  dilemma,  what  was  to  be  done  ?  They  were  yet  some 
distance  from  the  city;  no  house,  no  aid,  seemed  near. 

"  There  is,"  said  the  slave,  "  a  smith  about  a  mile  off;  I  could 
seek  him,  and  he  might  fasten  at  least  the  wheel  of  the  carruca; 
but  Jupiter!  how  the  rain  beats!  my  mistress  wUi  be  wet  before 
I  come  back!" 

"  Run  thither  at  least,"  said  Glaucus;  "  we  must  find  the  best 
shelter  we  can  till  you  return." 

The  lane  was  overshadowed  with  trees,  beneath  the  amplest 
of  which  Glaucus  drew  lone.  He  endeavored  by  stripping  his 
own  cloak  to  shield  her  yet  more  from  the  rapid  raiti;  but  it 
descended  with  a  fury  that  broke  through  all  puny  obstacles: 
and  suddenly,  while  Glaucus  Avas  yet  whispering  courage  to  his 
beautiful  charge,  the  lightning  struck  one  of  the  trees 
immediately  before  them,  and  split  with  a  mighty  crash  the  huge 
trunk  in  twain.  This  awfuT  incident  apprized  them  of  the 
danger  they  braved  in  their  present  shelter,  and  Glaucus  looked 
anxiously  round  for  some  less  perilous  place  of  refuge.  "  We 
are  now,"  said  he,  "  half-way  up  the  ascent  of  Vesuvius;  there 
ought  to  be  some  cavern  or  hollow  in  the  vine-clad  rocks,  could 
we  but  find  it,  in  wliich  the  deserting  Nymphs  have  left  a 
shelter."  Wliile  thus  saving  he  moved  from  the  trees,  and  look- 
ing wistfully  toward  the  mountain,  discovered  tln'ough  the 
advancing  gloom  a  red  and  tremulous  light  at  no  considerable 
distance.  *'  That  must  come,"  said  he,  "  from  the  hearth  of  some 
shepherd  or  vine-dresser — it  will  guide  us  to  some  hospitable  re- 
treat. Wilt  thou  stay  here  while  I — yet  no — that  would  be  to 
leave  thee  to  danger." 

'*I  will  go  \Aath  you  cheerfully,"  said  lone,  ^' Open  as  the 
space  seems,  it  is  better  than  the  treacherous  shelter  of  these 
boughs." 

Half  leading,  half  carrying  lone,  Glaucus,  accompanied  by  the 
trembling  female  slave,  advanced  to\v^ard  the  light,  which  yet 
burned  red  and  steadfastly.  At  length  the  space  was  no  longer 
«^pe»j  wilcl  vines  entangled  their  steps,  ^d  lUd  from  them,  gcivg 


152  THE  LAST  DA  73  OF  POMPEH, 

by  imperfect  intervals,  the  guiding  beam.  But  faster  and  fierce! 
came  the  rain,  and  the  liglitning  assumed  its  most  deadly  and 
blasting  form;  they  were  still,  therefore,  impelled  onward,  hoping 
at  last,  if  the  light  eluded  them,  to  arrive  at  some  cottage,  or 
some  friendly  cavern. 

The  vines  grew  more  and  more  intricate — the  liglit  was  entirely 
snatched  from  them;  but  a  narrow  patli  which  they  trod  with 
labor  and  pain,  guided  only  by  the  constant  and  long-lingering 
flashes  of  the  storm,  continued  to  lead  them  toward  its  direction. 
The  rain  ceased  suddenly:  precipitous  and  rough  crags  of 
scorched  lava  frowned  before  them,  rendered  more  fearful  br 
the  lightning  that  illumined  the  dark  and  dangerous  soil. 
Sometimes  the  blaze  lingered  over  the  iron-gray  heaps  of  scoria, 
covered  in  part  with  ancient  moss  or  stunted  trees,  as  if  seeking 
in  vain  for  some  gentler  product  of  earth,  more  worthy  of  its  ire; 
and  sometimes  leaving  the  whole  of  that  part  of  the  scene  in 
darkness,  the  lightning,  broad  and  sheeted,  hung  redly  over  the 
ocean,  tossing  far  below  until  its  waves  seemed  glowing  into  fire; 
and  so  intense  was  the  blaze,  that  it  brought  vividly  into  view 
even  the  sharp  outline  of  tlie  more  distant  windings  of  the  bay, 
from  the  eternal  Misenum,  with  its  lofty  brow,  to  the  beautiful 
Sorrentum  and  the  giant  hill  behind. 

Our  lovers  stopped  in  perplexity  and  doubt,  when  suddenly,  as 
the  darkness  that  gloomed  between  the  fierce  flashes  of  light- 
ning once  more  wrapt  them  round,  they  saw  near,  but  high,  be- 
fore them,  the  mysterious  light.  Another  blaze,  in  wliich 
heaven  and  earth  were  reddened,  made  visible  to  them  the  whole 
expanse;  no  house  was  near,  but  just  where  they  had  beheld  the 
lignt  they  thought  they  saw  in  the  recess  of  a  cavern  the  outline 
of  a  human  form.  The  darkness  once  more  returned ;  the  light, 
no  longer  paled  beneath  the  fires  of  heaven,  burned  forth  again; 
they  resolved  to  ascend  toward  it;  they  had  to  wind  tlieir  way 
among  vast  fragments  of  stone,  here  and  there  overhung  with 
wild  bushes;  but  they  gained  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  light,  and 
at  length  they  stood  opposite  the  mouth  of  a  kind  of  cavern, 
apparently  formed  by  huge  splinters  of  rock  that  had  fallen 
transverselv  athwart  each  other,  and,  looking  into  the  gloom, 
each  drew  back  involuntarily  with  a  superstitious  fear  and  chill. 

A  fire  burned  in  the  far  recess  of  the  cave;  and  over  it  was  a 
small  caldron;  on  a  tall  and  thin  column  of  iron  stood  a  rude 
lamp;  over  that  part  of  the  wall,  at  the  base  of  which  burned  the 
fire,  hung  in  many  rows,  as  if  to  dry,  a  profusion  of  herbs  and 
weeds.  A  fox,  couched  before  the  fire,  gazed  upon  the  strangers 
with  its  bright  and  red  eyes — its  hair  bristling — and  a  low  gi'owl 
stealing  from  between  its  teeth ;  in  the  center  of  the  cave  was  an 
earthen  statue,  which  had  tliree  heads  of  a  singular  and  fan- 
tastic cast:  they  were  formed  by  the  red  skulls  of  a  dog,  a  horse, 
and  a  boar;  a  low  tripod  stood  before  this  wild  representation  of 
the  popular  Hecate. 

But  it  was  not  these  appendages  and  appliances  of  the  cave 
that  thrilled  tlie  blood  of  tliose  who  gazed  fearfully  therein — it 
was  the  face  of  its  inmate.  Before  the  fire,  with  the  light  shin- 
ing full  upon  her  features,  sac  a  woman  of  considerable  ag** 


THE  LAST  DA  IS  OF  POMPEII,  158 

Perhaps  xn  no  couiitry  are  there  seen  so  many  hags  as  in  Italy; 
in  no  country  does  beauty  so  awfully  change,  in  age,  to  hideous- 
ness  the  most  appalling  and  revolting.  But  the  old  woman  now 
before  them  was  not  of  these  specimens  of  the  extreme  of  human 
ugliness;  on  the  contrary,  her  countenance  betrayed  the  remains 
of  a  regular  but  high  and  aquUine  order  of  feature:  with  stony 
eyes  turned  upon  them:  with  a  look  that  met  and  fascinated 
theirs — they  beheld  in  that  fearful  coimtenance  th.e  very  image 
of  a  corpse! — the  same,  the  glazed  and  lusterless  regard,  the 
blue  and  shrunken  lip,  the  drawn  and  hollow  jaw;  the  dead, 
lank  hair,  of  pale  gray — the  livid,  green,  ghastly  skin,  which 
seemed  aU  surely  tinged  and  tainted  by  the  gravel 

•'  It  is  a  dead  thing!"  said  Glaucus. 

"Nay;  it  stirs;  it  is  a  ghost  or  /arva,"  faltered  lone,  as  she 
clung  to  the  Athenian's  breast. 

"  Oh,  away,  awayl"  groaned  the  slave,  •'  it  is  the  witch  of  Ve- 
suvius!'* 

"  Who  are  ye?"  said  a  hoUow  and  ghostly  voice.  "And  what 
do  ye  here  ?" 

The  sound,  terrible  and  death-like  as  it  was;  suiting  well  the 
countenance  of  the  speaker,  and  seeming  i-ather  the  voice  of 
some  bodiless  wanderer  of  the  Styx  than  living  mortal,  would 
have  made  lone  shrink  back  into  the  pitiless  fury  of  the  storm, 
but  Glaucus,  though  not  without  some  misgivings,  drew  her  into 
the  cavern. 

"  We  are  storm-beaten  wanderers  from  the  neighboring  city," 
said  he,  "and  decoyed  hither  by  youi*  light:  we  crave  shelter  and 
the  comfort  of  your  hearth." 

As  he  spoke,  the  fox  rose  from  the  ground  and  advanced 
toward  the  strangers,  showing  from  end  to  end  its  white  teeth, 
and  deepening  in  its  menacing  growl. 

"  Down,  slave!"  said  the  witch;  and  at  the  sound  of  her  voice 
the  beast  dropped  at  once,  covering  its  face  with  its  brush,  and 
keepiag  only  its  quick,  vigilant  eye  fixed  upon  the  invaders  of 
its  repose.  "Come  to  the  fire  if  ye  will!"  said  she,  turning  to 
Glaucus  and  his  companions.  "I  never  welcome  Uving  thing; 
save  the  fox,  the  toad  and  the  viper;  so  I  cannot  welcome  ye; 
but  come  to  the  fire  without  welcome;  why  stand  upon  form?" 

The  language  in  which  the  hag  addressed  them  was  a  strang«i 
and  barbarous  Latin,  infcerlarded^with  many  words  of  some  mor«» 
rude  and  ancient  dialect.  She  did  not  stir  from  her  seat,  bui 
gazed  stonily  upon  them  as  Glaucus  now  released  lone  of  he* 
outer  wrapping  garments,  and  making  her  place  herself  on  a  log 
of  wood,  which  was  the  only  seat  he  perceived  at  hand— fanned 
with  his  breath  the  embers  into  a  more  glowing  flame.  The  slave, 
encouraged  by  the  boldness  of  her  superiors,  divested  herself  also 
of  her  long  palla,  and  crept  timorously  to  the  opposite  corner  of 
the  hearth. 

•'  We  disturb  you,  I  fear,"  said  the  silver  voice  of  lone,  in  con- 
ciliation. 

The  witch  did  not  reply — she  seemed  like  one  who  has  awak- 
ened for  a  moment  from  the  dead,  stud  has  then  relapsed  QU9e 
©iQre  m  the  eteiiiaj  slunabfir. 


154  TBE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  she  suddenly,  and  after  a  long  pauso,  **  are  yi 
brother  and  sister?" 

*'  No,"  said  lone,  blushing. 

**  Are  ye  married?" 

"  Not  so,"  replied  Glaucus. 

*'  Ho,  lovers!— lia!— ha!— hal"  and  the  witch  laughed  so  loud 
and  so  long  tliat  the  caverns  rang  again. 

The  heart  of  lone  stood  still  at  that  sti'ange  mirth.  Glaucus 
muttered  a  rapid  counter-spell  to  the  omen — and  the  slave  turn'?d 
as  pale  as  the  cheek  of  the  witch  herself. 

*' Why  dost  thou  laugh,  old  crone?"  said  Glaucus,  somewhat 
sternly,  as  he  concluded  his  invocation. 

"  Did  I  laugh?"  said  the  hag,  absently. 

*'She  is  in  her  dotage,"  wliispered  Glaucus:  as  he  said  this,  he 
caught  the  eye  of  the  hag  fixed  upon  him  with  a  malignant  and 
vivid  glare. 

*'Tliou  hQstI"  said  she  abruptly. 

*'  Thou  art  an  unconscious  welcomer,"  returned  Glaucus. 

**  HushI  provoke  her  not,  dear  Glaucus!"  whispered  lone, 

**  I  will  tell  thee  wliy  I  laughed  when  I  discovered  ye  were 
lovers,"  said  the  old  woman.  *'  It  ^^■as  because  it  is  a  pleasure  to 
the  old  and  withered  to  look  upon  young  hearts  like  yours — and 
to  know  the  time  will  come  when  you  will  loathe  each  other — 
loathe — loathe — ha!— ha!— ha! " 

It  was  now  lone's  turn  to  pray  against  the  unpleasing  prophecy. 

"  The  gods  forbid!"  said  she.  **Yet,  poor  woman,  thou  knowest 
little  of  love,  or  thou  wouldst  know  that  it  never  changes." 

"Was  I  young  once,  think  ye?"  returned  the  hag,  quickly; 
"  and  am  I  not  old,  and  hideous,  and  deathly  now?  Such  as  is  the 
form,  so  is  the  heart."  With  these  words  slie  saiik  again  into  a 
stillness  profound  and  fearful,  as  if  the  cessation  of  life  itself. 

*'  Hast  thou  dwelt  here  long?"  said  Glaucus,  after  a  pause,  feel- 
ing imcomfoi-tably  oppressed  beneath  a  silence  so  appalling. 

**  Ah,  long! — yes." 

"  It  is  but  a  drear  abode." 

*'  Ha!  thou  mayst  well  say  that— Hell  is  beneath  usi"  replied 
the  bag,  pointing  her  bony  finger  to  the  earth.  ^  "And  I  will  tell 
thee  a  secret — the  dim  things  below  are  preparing  wrath  for  ye 
above — you,  the  young,  the  thoughtless,  and  the  beautiful." 

"  Thou  utterest  but  evil  words,  ill-becoming  the  hospitable,** 
said  Glaucus;  "  and  iu  future  I  will  brave  the  tempest  rather  than 
thy  welcome.** 

"  Thou  wilt  do  well.  None  should  ever  seek  me — save  the 
wretched!" 

*'  And  why  the  wretched?"  asked  the  Athenian. 

•*I  am  the  witch  of  the  mountain,"  replied  the  sorceress,  with 
a  ghastly  grin;  "  my  tiade  is  to  give  hope  to  the  hopeless;  for  th« 
crossed  in  love  I  have  philters;  for  the  avaricious,  promises  of 
treasure;  for  the  malicious,  potions  of  revenge;  for  the  happy 
and  the  good,  I  have  only  what  life  has — cur.sesl  Trouble  me  no 
more." 

With  this  the  grim  tenant  of  the  cave  relapsed  into  a  silence  so 
obstinate  and  evillen,  that  Glaucus  iu  vain  endeavored  to  draw 


TtlE  LAST  DAYS  O.T  POMPEIT.  im 

lier  int<?  farther  conversation.  She  did  not  evince,  by  any  alter- 
ation of  her  locked  and  rigid  features,  that  slie  overheard  him. 
Fortunately,  however,  the  storm,  which  was  brief  as  violent,  be- 
gan now  to  relax;  the  rain  grew  less  and  less  fierce;  and  at  last, 
as  the  clouds  parted,  the  moon  burst  forth  in  the  purple  opening 
of  heaven,  and  streamed  clear  and  full  into  that  desolate  abode. 
Never  had  she  shone,  perhaps,  on  a  group  more  worthy  of  the 
painter's  art.  The  young,  the  beautiful  lone,  seated  by  that  rude 
fire— her  lover  akeady  forgetful  of  the  presence  of  the  hag,  at 
her  feet,  gazing  upward  to  her  face,  and  whispering  sweet  words 
— the  pale  and  aifrighted  slave  at  a  little  distance — and  the 
ghastly  hag  resting  her  deadly  eyes  upon  them;  yet  seemingly 
serene  and  fearless  (for  the  championship  of  love  hath  such 
power)  were  these  beautiful  beings,  things  of  another  sphere,  in 
that  dark  and  unholy  cavern,  with  its  gloomy  quaintness  of  ap- 
purtenance. The  fox  regarded  them  from  his  corner  with  his 
keen  and  fiery  eye;  and  as  Glaucus  now  tiu-ued  toward  the  witch, 
he  perceived  for  the  first  time,  just  under  the  seat,  the  bright 
gaze  and  crested  head  of  a  large  snake;  whether  it  was  that  the 
vivid  coloring  of  the  Athenian's  cloak,  thrown  over  the  shoulders 
of  lone,  attracted  the  reptile's  anger — its  crest  began  to  glow  and 
rise,  as  if  menacing  and  preparing  itself  to  spring  upon  the  Nea- 
politan; Glaucus  caught  quickly  at  one  of  the  half-burned  logs 
upon  the  hearth — and,  as  if  enraged  at  the  action,  the  snake  camo 
forth  from  its  shelter,  and  with  a  loud  hiss  raised  itself  on  end  till 
its  hight  nearly  readied  that  of  the  Greek. 

"  Witch !"  cried  Glaucus,  "command  thy  creature,  or  thou  wilt 
see  it  dead.'* 

"  It  has  been  despoiled  of  its  venom  !"  said  the  witch,  aroused 
at  his  threat:  but  ere  the  words  had  left  her  lip,  the  snake  had 
sprung  upon  Glancus;  quick  and  watchful,  the  agile  Greek 
leaped  lightly  aside;  and  struck  so  fell  and  dexterous  a  blow  on 
the  head  of  the  snake,  that  it  fell  prostrate  and  writhing  among 
the  embers  of  the  fire. 

The  hag  sprang  up  and  confronted  Glaucus  with  a  face  which 
would  have  fitted  the  fiercest  of  the  Furies,  so  utterly  dire  and 
wrathful  was  its  expression;  yet  even  in  horror  and  ghastliness 
preserving  the  outline  and  trace  of  beauty;  and  utterly  free  from 
that  coarse  grotesque  at  which  the  imaginations  of  the  North 
have  sought  the  source  of  terror. 

"  Thou  hast,"  said  she,  in  a  slow  and  steady  voice — which  be- 
lied the  expression  of  her  face,  so  much  was  it  passionless  and 
calm:  '*  thou  hast  had  shelter  under  my  roof,  and  warmth  at  my 
hearth;  thou  hast  returned  evil  for  good;  thou  hast  smitten  and 
haply  slain  the  thing  that  loved  me  and  was  mine:  nay,  more, 
the  creature,  above  all  others,  consecrated  to  gods  and  deemed 
venerable  by  man;*  now  hear  thy  punishment.  By  the  moon, 
who  is  the  guardian  of  the  sorceress;  by  Orcus,  who  is  the  treas- 
urer of  wrath — I  curse  thee  I  and  thou  art  cursed  I    May  thy 

*  A  peculiar  sanctity  was  attached  by  the  Romans  (as,  indeed,  by  per- 
haps every  ancient  people)  to  serpents,  which  they  kept  in  their  housesj 
and  often  iuti6«taced  at  theirjjaeaia. 


156  THE  LAST  DAY8  OP  POMPUH. 

love  be  blasted;  may  thy  name  be  blackened;  may  the  infer- 
nalfl  mark  thee;  may  thy  heart  wither  and  scorch;  may  thy  last 
hour  recall  to  thee  the  propliet  voice  of  the  Saga  of  Vesuvius  I 
And  thou — "  she  added,  turning  sharply  toward  lone,  and  rais- 
ing her  right  arm,  when  Glaucus  burst  impetuously  on  her 
gpeech  : 

"  Hag  I"  cried  he,  "  forbear  I  Me  thou  hast  cursed,  and  I  com- 
mit myself  to  the  gods.  I  defy  and  scorn  thee  t  but  breathe  but 
one  word  against  yon  maiden,  and  I  will  convert  the  oath  on  thy 
foul  lips  to  thy  dying  groan.     Beware  I" 

"  I  have  done,"  replied  the  hag,  laughing  wildly;  "for  in  thy 
doom  is  she  who  loves  thee  accursed.  And  not  the  less  that  I 
heard  her  lips  breathe  thy  name,  and  know  by  that  word  to  com- 
mend thee  to  the  demons.  Olaucus,  thou  art  doomed  !"  So  say- 
ing, the  witch  turned  from  the  Athenian,  and  kneeling  down 
beside  her  wounded  favorite,  which  she  dragged  from  the  hearth, 
she  turned  to  them  her  face  no  more. 

**0  Glaucus  I"  said  lone,  greatly  terrified,  *'what  have  we 
done?  Let  us  hasten  from  this  place;  the  storm  has  ceased. 
Good  mistress,  forgive  him;  recall  thy  words;  he  meant  but  to 
defend  himself;  accept  this  peace-offering  to  unsay  the  said:" 
and  lone,  stooping,  placed  her  purse  on  the  hag's  lap. 

"Away  I"  said  she,  bitterly.  "A  way  I  The  oath  once  woven 
the  Fates  only  can  untie.     Away!" 

**  Come,  dearest,"  said  Glaucus,  impatiently.  **  Thinkest  thou 
the  gods  above  us  or  below  hear  the  impotent  ravings  of  dotage? 
Gomel" 

Long  and  loud  rang  the  echoes  of  the  cavern  with  the  dread 
laugh  of  the  saga.    She  deigned  no  further  reply. 

TTbie  lovers  breathed  more  freely  when  they  gained  the  open 
air:  yet  the  scene  they  had  witnessed,  the  words  and  the  laugh- 
ter of  the  witch,  still  fearfully  dwelt  with  lone;  and  even  Glau- 
cus could  not  thoroughly  shake  off  the  impression  they  be- 
queathed. 

The  storm  had  subsided — save,  now  and  then,  a  low  thunder 
muttered  at  the  distance  amid  the  darker  clouds,  v^i"  a  moment- 
ary flash  of  lightning  affronted  the  sovereignty  <  f  the  moon. 
With  some  difficulty  they  regained  the  road,  where  they  found 
the  vehicle  already  sufficiently  repaired  for  their  departure  and 
the  camicarius  calling  loudly  upon  Hercules  to  tell  liim  where 
his  charge  had  vanished. 

Glaucus  vainly  endeavored  to  cheer  the  exhausted  spirits  of 
lone;  and  scarce  less  vainly  to  recover  the  elastic  tone  of  his 
natural  gayety.  They  soon  arrived  before  tlie  gote  of  the  city: 
as  it  opened  to  them,  a  htter  borne  by  slaves  impeded  the  way. 

*'  It  is  too  late  for  egress,"  cried  the  sentinel  to  the  inmate  of 
the  htter. 

"  Not  so,"  said  a  voice,  which  the  lovers  started  to  hear:  it 
was  a  voice  they  well  recognized.  "  I  am  bound  to  the  villa  of 
Marcus  Polybius.  I  siiall  return  sliortly,  I  am  Arbaces  th« 
Egyptian.' 

The  scruples  ot  bin.  of  the  gate  were  removed,  and  the  litter 
passed  close  beside  the  carriage  that  bore  the  lovers. 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  1U7 

"Arbaces,  at  this  hour! — scarce  recovered,  too,  methinks! 
Whither  and  for  what  can  he  leave' the  city?"  said  Glaucus. 

"Alast"  repKed  lone,  bursting  into  tears,  "my  soul  feels  still 
more  and  more  the  omen  of  evil.  Preserve  us,  O  ye  Gods  I  or  at 
'east,'*  she  murmured  inly,  "preserve  my  Glaucusl" 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  LORD  OF  THE  BURNING  BELT  AND  HIS  MINION. — FATE  WRITES 
HER  PROPHECY  IN  RED  LETTERS,  BUT  WHO  SHALL  READ  THEM? 

Arbaces  had  tarried  only  till  the  cessation  of  the  tempest 
allowed  him,  under  cover  of  night,  to  seek  the  Saga  of  Vesuvius, 
Borne  by  those  of  his  trustier  slaves  in  wliom  in  all  more  secret 
expeditions  he  was  accustomed  to  confide,  he  lay  extended  along 
his  litter,  and  resigning  his  sanguine  heart  to  the  contemplation 
of  vengeance  gratified  and  love  possessed.  The  slaves  in  so  short 
a  jom-ney  moved  very  little  slower  than  the  ordinary  pace 
of  mules;  and  Arbaces  soon  arrived  at  the  commencement  of  a 
narrow  path,  which  the  lovers  had  not  been  fortunate  enough  to 
discover;  but  which,  skii'ting  the  thick  vines,  led  at  once  to  the 
habitation  of  the  witch.  Here  he  rested  the  litter;  and  bidding 
his  slaves  conceal  themselves  and  the  vehicle  among  the  vines 
from  the  observation  of  any  chance  passenger,  he  mounted  alone, 
with  steps  still  feeble  but  supported  by  a  long  staff,  the  drear 
and  sharp  ascent. 

Not  a  di'op  of  rain  fell  from  the  tranquil  heaven;  but  moisture 
dripped  mournfully  from  the  laden  boughs  of  the  vine,  and  now 
and  then  collectedin  tiny  pools  in  the  crevices  and  hollows  of 
the  rocky  way. 

"  Strange  passions  these  for  a  philosopher,"  thought  Arbaoei^ 
"  that  lead  one  like  me  just  new  from  the  bed  of  death,  and  lap- 
ped even  in  health  amid  the  rosesjof  luxm-y,  across  such  nocturnal 
paths  as  this;  but  Passion  and  Vengeance  treading  to  their  goal 
can  make  an  Elysium  of  a  Tartarus."  High,  clear,  and  melan- 
choly shone  the  moon  above  the  road  of  that  dark  wayfarer, 
glassing  herself  in  every  pool  that  lay  before  him,  and  sleeping  in 
shadow  along  the  sloping  mount.  He  saw  before  him  the  same 
hght  that  had  guided  the  steps  of  his  intended  victims,  but,  no 
longer  contrasted  by  the  blackened  clouds,  it  shone  less  redly 
clear. 

He  paused,  as  at  length  he  approached  the  mouth  of  the  cav- 
ern, to  recover  breath;  and  then,  with  his  wonted  collected  and 
stately  mien,  he  crossed  the  unhallowed  threshold. 

The  fox  sprang  up  at  the  ingress  of  this  new-comer,  and  by  a 
long  howl  announced  another  visitor  to  his  mistress. 

The  witch  had  resumed  her  seat,  and  her  aspect  of  grave-like 
and  grim  repose.  By  her  feet,  upon  a  bed  of  dry  weeds  which 
half  covered  it,  lay  the  wounded  snake;  but  the  quick  eye  of  the 
Egyptian  caught  its  scales  glittering  in  the  reflected  light  of  the 
opposite  fire,  as  it  writhed — now  contracting,  now  lengthening 
its  folds,  in  pain  and  unsated  anger. 

**  Down,  slave  I "  said  the  witch,  as  before,  to  the  fox;  and,  aa 
^fore,  the  animal  dropped  to  the  ground — ^mute,  but  vigilant. 


IN  THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEIZ 

"  Rise,  servant  of  Nox  and  Erebus  I  '*  said  Arbaces,  command* 
Ingly,  •'  a  superior  in  thine  art  salutes  thee  I  rise,  and  welcom* 
him." 

At  these  ^rords  the  hag  turned  her  gaze  upon  the  Egyptian's 
towering  form  and  dark  features.  She  looked  long  and  fixedly 
upon  hini,  as  lie  stood  before  her  in  his  Oriental  robe,  and  folded 
arms,  and  steadfast  and  haughty  brow.  *'  Who  art  thou,"  she 
said  at  last,  "  that  callest  thyself  greater  in  art  than  the  Saga  of 
the  Burning  Fields,  and  the  daughter  of  the  perished  Etrurian 
race  ?  " 

*•  I  am  he,"  answered  Arbaces,  "  from  whom  all  cultivators  of 
magic,  from  north  to  south,  from  east  to  west,  from  the  Ganges 
and  the  Nile  to  the  vales  of  Thessaly  and  the  shores  of  the  yellow 
Tiber,  have  stooped  to  learn." 

*'  There  is  but  one  such  man  in  these  places,"  answered  the 
witch,  "whom  the  men  of  the  outer  world,  unknowing  his 
loftier  attributes  and  more  secret  fame,  call  Arbaces  the  Egyp- 
tian: to  us  of  a  liigher  nature  and  deeper  knowledge,  his  rightful 
appellation  is  Hermes  of  the  Burning  Girdle." 

*'  Look  again,"  returned  Arbaces;  '*  I  am  he." 

As  he  spoke  he  drew  aside  his  robe,  and  revealed  a  cincture 
seemingly  of  fire,  tliat  burned  around  his  waist,  clasped  in  the 
centre  by  a  plate  whereon  was  engraven  some  sign  apparently 
vague  and  uninteUigible,  but  which  was  evidently  not  unknown 
to  the  Saga.  She  rose  hastily,  and  tlirew  herself  at  the  feet  ot 
Arbaces.  **I  have  seen,  then,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  of  deep 
hmmility,  "the  Lord  of  the  Mighty  Giidle — vouchsafe  my 
komege." 

*'  Rise,"  said  the  Egyptian;  "I  have  need  of  thee." 

So  saying,  he  placed  himself  on  the  same  log  of  wood  on  which 
lone  had  rested  before,  and  motioned  the  witch  to  resume  her 
seat. 

"Thou  sayest,"  he  said,  as  she  obeyed,  "that  thou  art  a 
daughter  of  the  ancient  Etrurian  tribes;  the  mighty  walls  of 
whose  rock-built  cities  yet  frown  above  the  robber  race  that  hath 
seized  upon  their  ancient  reign.  Partly  came  those  tribes  from 
Greece,  partly  they  were  exiles  from  a  more  burning  and  prime- 
val soil.  In  either  case  art  thou  of  Egj^ptian  lineage,  for  the 
Grecian  masters  of  the  aboriginal  helot  were  among  the  restless 
sons  whom  the  Nile  banished  from  her  bosom.  Eoually,  then, 
O  Saga  !  thy  descent  is  from  ancestors  that  swore  allegiance  to 
mine  own.  By  birth,  as  by  knowledge,  art  thou  the  subject  of 
Arbaces.     Hear  me,  then,  and  obey  I " 

The  witch  bowed  her  head. 

"Whatever  art  we  possess  in  sorcery,"  continued  Arbaces, 
"  we  are  sometimes  driven  to  natural  means  to  attain  our  object. 
The  ring  and  the  crystal,  and  the  ashes  and  the  herbs,  do  not  give 
unerring  divinations;  neither  do  the  higher  mysteries  of  the 
moon  yield  even  the  possessor  of  the  girdle  a  dispensation  from 
the  necessity  of  employing  ever  and  anon  human  measures  for  & 
human  object.  ^lark  me,  then;  thou  art  deeply  skilled,  methinks, 
in  the  secret  of  the  more  deadly  herbs;  thou  knowest  those  which 
Orrest  life,  which  bum  and  scorch  the  soul  from  out  her  citadel. 


THE  LAST  hA  rS  OF  POMPEJO,  159 

or  freeze  the  channels  of  the  young  blood  into  that  ice  which  no 
sun  can  melt.    Do  I  overrate  thy  skill?    Speak,  and  truly  I" 

"  Mighty  Hermes,  such  lore  is,  indeed,  mine  own.  Deign  to  look 
at  these  ghostly  and  corpse- like  features;  they  have  waned  from 
the  hues  of  life  merely  by  watching  over  the  rank  herbs  which 
simmer  night  and  day  in  yon  caldron." 

The  Egyptian  moved  his  seat  from  so  unblessed  or  so  unhealthy 
ful  a  vicinity,  as  the  witch  spoke. 

"It  is  well,"  he  said;  *' thou  hast  learned  that  maxim  of  all 
the  deeper  knowledge  which  saith,  *  Depise  the  body,  to  make 
wise  the  mind.'  But  to  my  task.  There  cometh  to  thee  by  to-mor- 
row's star-light,  a  vain  maiden,  seeking  of  thy  art  a  love-charm 
to  fascinate  from  another  the  eyes  that  should  utter  but  soft  tales 
to  her  own;  instead  of  thy  philters,  give  the  maiden  one  of  thy 
most  powerful  poisons.  Let  the  lover  breathe  his  vows  to  the 
Shades." 

The  witch  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Oh,  pardoni  pardoni  dread  master,"  said  she,  faltering;  "but 
this  I  dare  not.  The  law  in  these  cities  is  sharp  and  vigilant; 
they  will  seize,  they  will  slay  me." 

"For  what  purpose,  then,  thy  herbs  and  thy  potions,  vain 
Saga?"  said  Arbaces,  sneeringly. 

The  witch  hid  her  loathsome  face  with  her  hands, 

"  OhI  years  ago,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  unlike  her  usual  tones,  so 
plaintive  was  it,  and  so  soft,  "  I  was  not  the  thing  that  I  am  now 
—I  loved,  I  fancied  myself  beloved." 

"And  what  connection  hath  thy  love,  witch,  with  my  com- 
mands?" said  Arbaces,  impetuously. 

"Patience,"  resumed  the  witch;  "patience,  I  implore.  I  loved! 
another  less  fair  than  I — yes,  by  Nemesis!  less  fair — allured  from 
me  my  chosen.  I  was  of  that  dark  Etrurian  tribe  to  whom  most 
of  all  were  known  the  secrets  of  the  gloomier  magic.  My  mother 
was  herself  a  sage;  she  shared  the  resentment  of  her  child; 
from  her  hands  I  received  the  potion  that  was  to  restore  me  his 
love;  and  from  her,  also,  the  poison  that  was  to  destroy  my  rival. 
Oh,  crush  me,  dread  walls  I  my  trembling  hands  mistook  the 
phials,  my  lover  fell  indeed  at  my  feet;  but  deadi  dead!  Since 
then  what  has  been  life  to  me?  I  became  suddenly  old,  I  devoted 
myseK  to  the  sorceries  of  my  race;  still  by  an  irresistible  impulse 
I  curse  myself  with  an  awful  penance;  still  I  seek  the  most  ob- 
noxious herbs;  still  I  concoct  the  poisons;  still  I  imagine  that  I 
am  to  give  them  to  my  hated  rival;  still  I  pour  them  into  the 
phial;  still  I  fancy  that  they  shall  blast  her  beauty  to  the  dust; 
still  I  wake  and  see  the  quivering  body,  the  foaming  lips,  the 
glazing  eyes  of  my  Aulus — murdered,  and  by  me!" 

The  skeleton  frame  of  the  witch  shook  beneath  strong  connil- 
sions. 

Arbaces  gazed  upon  her  with  a  curious  though  contemptuous 
eye. 

"  And  this  foul  tiling  has  yet  human  emotionsl"  thought  he; 
*'  she  stUl  cowers  over  the  ashes  of  the  same  fire  that  coneiunee 
Arbaces!— Such  are  we  all!  Mystic  is  the  tie  of  those  mortal  pas* 
mojxa  that  umte  the  greatest  and  the  least. 


IM  TSE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

He  did  not  reply  till  she  had  somewhat  recovered  herself,  as4 
Bat  rocking  to  ana  fro  in  her  seat,  with  glassy  eyes  fixed  on  th« 
opposite  frame,  and  large  tears  rolling  down  her  livid  cheeks. 

'•  A  grievous  tale  is  thine,  in  truth,"  said  Arbaces.  *'  But  these 
emotions  are  fit  only  for  our  youth — age  should  harden  our  hearts 
to  all  things  but  ourselves;  as  every  year  adds  a  scale  to  the  shell- 
fish, so  should  each  year  wall  and  incrust  the  heart.  Think  of 
those  frenzies  no  morel  And  now,  listen  to  me  again.  By  the  re- 
venge that  was  dear  to  thee,  I  command  thee  to  obey  me!  it  is  for 
vengeance  that  I  seek  theel  This  youth  whom  I  would  sweep 
from  my  path  has  crossed  me,  despite  my  spells — this  thing  of 
purple  and  broidery,  of  smiles  and  glances,  soulless  and  mindless, 
with  no  charm  but  that  of  beauty — accursed  be  iti — this  insect — 
this  Glaucus — I  tell  thee,  by  Orcus  and  by  Nemesis,  he  must  die." 

And  working  himself  up  at  every  word,  the  Egyptian,  forget- 
ful of  his  debility — of  his  strange  companion — of  everything  but 
his  own  vindictive  rage,  strode  with  large  and  rapid  steps,  the 
gloomy  cavern. 

**  Glaucus!  saidst  thou,  mighty  master?"  said  the  witch  abrupt- 
ly; and  her  dim  eye  glared  at  the  name  with  all  that  fierce  re 
sentment  at  the  memory  of  small  affronts  so  common  among  the 
solitary  and  the  shunned. 

"Ay,  so  he  is  called;  but  what  matters  the  name?  Let  it  not 
be  heard  as  that  of  a  living  man  three  days  from  this  date." 

"Hear  me,"  said  the  A\-itch,  breaking  from  a  short  revery  into 
which  she  was  plunged  after  th  last  sentence  of  the  Egyptian, 
"  Hear  me  1 1  am  thy  thing  and  thy  slave!  spare  mel  If  I  give  to 
the  maiden  thou  speakest  of  that  which  would  destroy  the  life  of 
Glaucus,  I  shall  be  surely  detected — the  dead  ever  find  avengers. 
Nay,  dread  man!  if  thy  visit  to  me  be  ti-acked,  if  thy  hatred  t« 
Glaucus  be  known,  thou  mayest  have  need  of  thy  archest  magic 
to  protect  thyself!" 

"  Hal"  said  Arbaces,  stopping  suddenly  short;  and  as  a  proof  of 
that  blindness  with  which  passion  darkens  the  eyes  ever  of  the 
the  most  acute,  this  was  the  first  time  when  the  risk  that  he  him- 
self ran  by  this  method  of  vengeance  had  occurred  to  a  mind  or- 
dinarily wary  and  circumspect. 

'*But,"  continued  the  witch,  "if  instead  of  that  which  shall 
arrest  the  heart,  I  give  that  which  shall  sear  and  blast  the  brain — 
which  shall  make  him  who  quaffs  it  unfit  for  the  uses  and  career 
of  life — an  abject,  raving,  benighted  thing — smiting  sense  to 
driveling,  youth  to  dotage — will  not  thy  vengeance  be  equally 
sated— thy  object  equally  attained?" 

"  Oh,  wltchl  no  longer  the  servant,  but  the  sister— the  equal  of 
Arbaces — how  mucli  brighter  is  woman's  wit,  even  in  vengeance, 
than  ours!  How  much  more  exouisite  than  death  is  such  a  doom!" 

"And,*' continued  the  hag,  gloating  over  her  fell  scheme,  "in 
this  is  but  little  danger;  for  by  ten  thousand  methods,  which 
men  forbear  to  seek,  can  our  victim  become  mad.  He  may  hav« 
been  anM)ng  the  vines  and  seen  a  nymph* — or  the  vine  itself  may 

*  To  sec  a  aympj  was  to  become  mad,  according  to  classic  and  ponulai 
•nperattUoa 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  161 

Dave  had  the  same  effect — ha,  ha  I  They  never  inquu-e  too  scru- 
pulously into  these  matters  in  which  the  gods  may  be  agents 
And  let  the  worst  arrive — let  it  be  known  that  it  is  a*  love-charm 
— why,  madness  is  the  common  effect  of  philters;  and  even  the 
fair  she  that  gave  it  finds  indulgence  in  the  excuse.  Mighty 
Hermes,  have  I  ministered  to  thee  cunningly?" 

*'  Thou  shalt  have  twenty  years'  longer  date  for  this,"  returned 
Arbaces.  *'  I  will  write  anew  the  epoch  of  thy  fate  in  the  face  of 
the  pale  stars— thou  shalt  not  serve  in  vaia  the  Master  of  the 
Flaming  Belt.  And  here,  Saga,  caiwe  thee  out,  by  these  golden 
tools,  a  warmer  cell  in  this  dreary  cavern — one  service  to  me 
shall  countervail  a  thousand  divinations  by  sieve  and  shears  to 
the  gaping  rustics."  So  saying,  he  cast  upon  the  floor  a  heavy 
purse,  which  clinked  not  unmusically  to  the  ear  of  the  hag,  who 
loved  the  consciousness  of  possessing  the  means  to  purchase  com- 
forts she  disdained. 

"Farewell,"  said  Arbaces,  *'  fail  not — outwatch  the  stars  in 
concocting  thy  beverage — thou  shalt  lord  it  over  thy  sisters  at  the 
Walnut-tree  when  thou  tellest  them  that  thy  patron  and  thy 
friend  is  Hermes  the  Egyptian.  To-morrow  night  we  meet 
again." 

He  stayed  not  to  hear  the  valediction  or  the  thanks  of  the 
witch;  with  a  quick  step  he  passed  into  the  moon-lit  air,  and 
hastened  down  the  mountain. 

The  witch,  who  followed  his  steps  to  the  threshold,  stood  long 
at  the  entrance  of  the  cavern,  gazing  fixedly  at  his  receding 
form;  and  as  the  sad  moonlight  streamed  upon  her  shadowy 
form  and  death-like  face,  emerging  from  the  dismal  rocks,  it 
seemed  as  if  one  gifted,  indeed,  by  supernatural  magic,  had 
escaped  from  the  dreary  Orcus:  and,  the  foremost  of  its  ghostly 
throng  stood  at  its  black  portals — vainly  summoning  his  return, 
or  vainly  sighing  to  rejoin  him.  The  hag  then  slowly  re-enter- 
ing the  cave,  groaningly  picked  up  the  heavy  purse,  took  the 
lamp  from  its  stand,  and,  passing  to  the  remotest  depth  of  her 
cell,  a  blank  and  abrupt  passage,  which  was  not  visible,  save  at 
a  near  approach,  closed  round  as  it  was  with  jutting  and  sharp 
crags,  yawned  before  her;  she  went  several  yards  along  this 
gloomy  path,  which  sloped  gradually  downward,  as  if  toward 
the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  lifting  a  stone,  deposited  her  treas- 
ure in  a  hole  beneath,  which,  as  the  lamp  pierced  its  secrets, 
seemed  already  to  contain  coins  of  various  value,  wrung  from 
the  credulity  or  gratitude  of  her  visitors. 

"I  love  to  look  at  you,"  said  she,  apostrophising  the  moneys; 
"  for  when  I  see  you,  I  feel  that  I  am  indeed  of  power.  And  I 
am  to  have  twenty  years  longer  life  to  increase  your  storet  O 
thou  great  Hermes  I" 

She  replaced  the  stone,  and  continued  her  path  onward  for 
some  paces,  when  she  stopped  before  a  deep  irregular  fissure  in 
the  earth.     Here,  as  she  bent,    strange,  rumbling,  hoarse,  and 

*  The  celebrated  and  immemorial  rendezvous  of  the  witches  at  Ben»- 
vento.  The  winged  serpent  attached  to  it,  long  an  object  of  Idolatry  iB 
tbos©  parts,  was  probably  consecrated  by  Egyptian  superytitiona. 


1C3  THE  LAST  DA  T8  OF  FOMPED. 

distant  sounds  might  be  he«ard.  while  ever  and  anon,  with  a  loud 
and  grating  noise,  which  to  use  a  homely  but  faithful  simile, 
seemed  to  lesemble  the  grinding  of  steel  upon  wheels,  voltunea 
of  streaming  and  dark  smoke  issued  forth,  and  rushed  spirally 
along  the  cavern. 

"  The  Shades  are  noisier  than  their  wont,**  said  the  hag,  shaking 
her  gray  locks;  and,  looking  into  the  cavit}^  she  beheld,  far 
down,  glimpses  of  a  long  streak  of  light,  intf>nsely  but  darkly  red. 
**  Strangel"  she  said,  shrinking  back;  "it  is  only  within  the  last 
two  days  that  dull  deep  light  hath  been  visible — what  can  it 
portend?" 

The  fox,  who  had  attended  the  steps  of  his  fell  mistress,  uttered 
a  dismal  howl  and  ran  cowering  back  to  the  inner  cave;  a  cold 
shuddering  seized  the  hag  herself  at  the  cry  of  the  animal,  which, 
causeless  as  it  seemed,  the  superstitions  of  the  time  considered 
deeply  ominous.  She  muttered  her  placatory  charm,  and  tot- 
tered back  into  her  cavern,  where,  amid  her  herbs  and  incanta- 
tions, she  prepared  to  execute  the  orders  of  the  Egyptian. 

*'  He  called  me  dotard,"  said  she,  as  the  smoke  curled  from  the 
hissing  caldron;  "  when  the  jaws  drop,  and  the  grinders  fall,  and 
the  heart  scarce  beats,  it  is  a  pitiable  thing  to  dote;  but  when,** 
she  added,  with  a  savage  and  exultant  grin,  *'  the  young,  and  the 
beautiful,  and  the  strong,  are  suddenly  smitten  into  idiocy — ^ah, 
that  is  terrible!  Burn  flame — simmer  herb — swelter  toad — ^I 
cursed  him,  and  he  shall  be  cursed  I" 

On  that  night,  and  at  the  same  hour  which  witnessed  the  dark 
and  unholy  interview  between  Arbaces  and  the  saga,  Apaecides 
was  baptized. 

CHAPTER  XL 

PROGRESS  OP  EVENTS. — THE  PLOT  THICKENS. — ^THB  WEB  IS  WOVEN, 
BUT  THE  NET  CHANGES  HANDS. 

*' And  you  have  the  courage  ,then,  Julia,  to  seek  the  Witch  of 
Vesuvius  this  evening;  in  company,  too,  with  that  fearful  man?'' 

"Why,  Nydia?"  replied  Julia,  timidly;  '*  dost  thou  really  think 
there  is  anything  to  dread?  These  old  hags,  with  their  enchanted 
mirrors,  their  trembling  sieves,  and  their  moon-gathered  herbs, 
are,  I  imagine,  but  crafty  impostors,  who  have  learned,  perhaps, 
nothing  but  the  very  charm  for  which  I  apply  to  their  skill,  and 
which  IS  drawn  but  from  the  knowledge  of  the  fields'  herbs  and 
simples.    Wherefore  should  I  dread?" 

*'  Dost  thou  not  fear  thy  companion?" 

"  What,  Arbaces?  By  Dian,  I  never  saw  lover  more  courteous 
than  that  same  magician  I  And  were  he  not  so  dark,  he  would 
be  even  handsome." 

Blind  as  she  was,  I^ydia  had  the  penetration  to  perceive  that 
Julia's  mind  was  not  one  that  the  gallantries  of  Arbaces  were 
likely  to  terrify.  She  therefore  dissuaded  her  no  more;  but 
imrsed  in  her  excited  heart  the  wild  and  increasing  desire  to 
know  if  sorcery  had  indeed  a  sj)ell  to  fascinate  love  to  love. 

"Let  me  go  with  thee,  noble  Julia,"  said  she  at  length;  *'my 


THE  LAST  DATS  OF  POMPEIL  163 

preeence  is  no  protection,  but  I  should  like  to  be  beside  tliee  to 
the  last." 

"Thine  offer  pleases  me  much,"  replied  the  daughter  of  Dio- 
med.  *'  Yet  how  canst  thou  contrive  it?  we  may  not  return  un- 
til late — thejy  will  miss  thee." 

'  lone  is  indulgent,"  rephed  Nydia.  **  If  thou  wilt  permit  me 
to  sleep  beneath  thy  roof,  I  will  say  that  thou,  an  early  patroness 
and  friend,  hast  invited  me  to  pass  the  day  with  thee,  and  sing 
thee  my  Thessalian  songs;  her  courtesy  will  readily  grant  to  thee 
so  light  a  boon." 

"Nay,  ask  for  thyself!"  said  the  haughty  Julia.  "  I  stoop  to 
ask  no  favor  from  the  NeapoUtan!" 

"Well,  be  it  so.  I  will  take  my  leave  now,  make  my  request, 
which  I  know  will  be  readily  granted,  and  return  shortly." 

"  Do  so;  and  thy  bed  shall  be  prepared  in  my  own  chamber." 

With  that,  Nydia  left  the  fair  Pompeian. 

On  her  way  back  to  lone  she  was  met  by  the  chariot  of  Glau» 
cus,  on  whose  fiery  and  curveting  steeds  was  riveted  the  gaze  of 
the  crowded  street. 

He  kindly  stopped  for  a  moment  to  speak  to  the  flower-girl. 

*'  Blooming  as  thine  own  roses,  my  gentle  Nydia!  and  how  is 
thy  fair  mistress? — recovered,  I  tmst,  from  the  effects  of  the 
storm!" 

"I  have  not  seen  her  this  morning,"  answered  Nydia,  "but — ^* 

"  But  what?  draw  back — the  horses  are  too  near  thee." 

"But,  think  you  lone  will  permit  me  to  pass  the  day  with 
Julia,  the  daughter  of  Diomed? — she  wishes  it  and  was  kind  to 
me  when  I  had  few  friends." 

"  The  gods  bless  thy  grateful  heart!  I  will  answer  for  lone'a 
permission." 

"  Then  I  may  stay  over  the  night,  and  return  to-morrow?"  said 
Nydia,  shrinking  from  the  praise  she  so  little  merited. 

"  As  thou  and  fair  Julia  please.  Commend  me  to  her;  and, 
hark  ye,  Nydia,  when  thou  hearest  her  speak,  note  the  contrast 
of  her  voice  with  that  of  the  silver-toned  lone.     Vale  /" 

His  spirits  entirely  recovered  from  the  effect  of  the  past  night, 
his  locks  waving  in  the  wind,  his  joyous  and  elastic  heart 
bounding  with  every  spring  of  his  Parthian  steed,  a  very  proto- 
type of  his  country's  god,  full  of  youth  and  of  love — Glaucus  was 
borne  rapidly  to  his  mistress. 

Enjoy  while  ye  may  the  present — ^who  can  read  the  future? 

As  the  evening  darkened,  Julia,  reclined  within  her  litter, 
which  was  capacious  enough  also  to  admit  her  blind  companion, 
took  her  way  to  the  rural  baths  indicated  by  Arbaces.  To  her 
natural  levity  of  disposition,  the  enterprise  brought  less  of  terror 
than  of  pleasurable  excitement;  above  all,  she  glowed  at  the 
thought  of  her  coming  ti'iumph  over  the  hated  Neapolitan. 

A  small  but  gay  group  was  collected  around  the  door  of  the 
villa,  as  her  litter  passed  by  it  to  the  private  entraynce  of  the 
baths  appropriated  to  the  women. 

"  Methinks,  by  this  dim  light,"  said  one  of  the  bystanders,  "  I 
recognize  the  slave  of  Diomed." 

"True,  Clodius,"  said  Sallust:  "  it  is  probably  the  litter  of  hia 


lU  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIL 

daughter  Julia.  She  Is  rich,  my  friend;  why  dost  thou  not  prof- 
fer suit  to  her?" 

*' Why,  I  had  once  hoped  that  Glaucus  would  have  married 
her.  She  does  not  disguise  her  attachment;  and  then  as  lie  gam- 
bles freely  and  with  ill-success " 

*♦  The  sesterces  would  have  passed  to  ihee,  wise  Clodius.  A 
wife  is  a  good  thing — when  it  belongs  tcJfetuother  man  I" 

*•  But,"  continued  Clodius,  **  as  GlaucUJ  is,  I  understand,  to 
wed  the  Neapolitan,  I  think  I  must  even  try  my  cliance  with  the 
dejected  maid.  After  all,  the  lamp  of  Hymen  will  be  gilt,  and 
the  vessel  will  reconcile  one  to  the  odor  of  the  flame.  I  shall 
only  protest,  my  Sallust,  against  Diomed's  making  thee  trus- 
tee to  his  daughter's  fortune."* 

*'  Hal  hal  let  us  within,  my  commissator:  the  wine  and  the 
garlands  wait  us." 

Dismissing  her  slaves  to  that  part  of  the  house  set  apart  for 
their  entertainment,  Julia  entered  the  bath  with  Nydia,  and  de- 
clining the  offers  of  the  attendants,  passed  by  a  private  door  into 
the  garden  behind. 

**  She  comes  by  appointment,  be  sure,"  said  one  of  the  slaves. 

**  What  is  that  to  thee?"  said  a  superintendent,  sourly:  **  she 
pays  for  the  baths,  and  does  not  waste  the  saffron.  Such  ap- 
pointments are  the  best  of  the  trade.  Hark  I  do  you  not  hear  the 
widow  Fulvia  clapping  her  hands?    Run,  fool — rim!" 

Julia  and  Nydia,  avoiding  the  more  public  part  of  the  garden, 
arrived  at  the  place  specified  by  the  Egyptian.  In  a  small 
circular  plot  of  grass  the  stars  gleamed  upon  the  statue  of 
SUenus:  the  merry  god  reclined  upon  a  fragment  of  rock,  the 
lynx  of  Bacchus  at  liis  feet,  and  over  his  mouth  he  held,  with  ex- 
tended arm,  a  bimch  of  grapes,  which  he  seemingly  laughed  to 
welcome  ere  he  devoured. 

"  I  see  not  the  magician,"  said  Julia,  looking  round:  when,  as 
she  spoke,  the  Egyptian  slowly  emerged  from  the  neighboring 
foliage,  and  the  light  fell  palely  over  his  sweeping  robes. 

•*  Sdlve,  sweet  niaiden — ^but  hal  whom  hast  thou  here?  we  must 
have  no  companions!" 

"It  is  but  the  blind  flower  girl,  wise  magician,**  replied  Julia: 
•'  herself  a  Thessalian." 

"  Ohl  Nydial'*  said  the  Egyptian;  *'  I  know  her  well." 

Nydia  drew  back  and  sluiddered. 

"Thou  hast  been  at  my  house,  methinks?"  said  he.  approach- 
ing his  voice  to  Nydia's  ear;  '•  thou  knowest  the  oath!— Silence 
and  secresy,  now  as  then,  or  beware!" 

"Yet,"  he  added,  musingly  to  himself,  "why  confide  more 
than  is  necessary,  even  in  the  blind— Julia,  canst  thou  trust 
thyself  alone  with  me?  Believe  me,  the  magician  is  less 
formidable  than  he  seems." 

♦ft  was  an  ancient  Roman  law,  that  no  one  should  make  a  woman  his 
heir.  The  law  was  evaded  by  the  parent's  asslgnina:  his  fortune  to  a 
friend  in  trust  for  his  dnutrliter,  Imt  the  trusteie  might  keep  it  if  he  liked. 
The  law  had,  however,  fallen  into  disuse  before  the  date  of  this  stoiy. 


THE  LAST  DATS  OF  POMPEII,  165 

As  he  spoke,  he  gently  drew  Julia  aside. 

"  The  witch  loves  not  many  visitors  at  once,"  said  he;  "  leave 
Nydia  here  till  your  return;  she  can  be  of  no  assistance  to  us:  and, 
for  protection — your  own  beauty  suffices — your  own  and  your 
rank;  yes,  Julia,  I  know  thy  name  and  bhth.  Come,  trust  thyself 
with  me,  fair  rival  of  the  youngest  of  the  Naiads  I" 

The  vain  Julia  was  not,  as  we  have  seen,  easily  affrighted;  she 
was  moved  by  the  flattery  of  Arbaces,  and  she  readily  consented 
to  suffer  Nydia  to  await  her  return;  nor  did  Nydia  press  her 
presence.  At  the  Egyptian's  voice  all  her  terror  of  him  returned; 
she  felt  a  sentiment  of  pleasure  at  learning  she  was  not  to  travel 
in  liis  companionship. 

She  returned  to  the  bath-house,  and  in  one  of  the  private  cham- 
bers waited  their  return.  Many  and  bitter  were  the  thoughts  of 
this  wild  girl  as  she  sat  there  in  her  eternal  darkness.  She 
thought  of  her  own  desolate  fate,  far  from  her  native  land,  far 
from  the  bland  cares  that  once  assuaged  the  April  sorrows  of 
childhood;  deprived  of  the  light  of  day,  with  none  but  strangers 
to  guide  her  steps,  accursed  by  the  one  soft  feeling  of  her  heart, 
loving  and  without  hope,  save  the  dim  and  unholy  ray  which 
shot  across  her  mind,  as  her  ThessaUan  fancies  questioned  of  the 
force  of  spells  and  the  gifts  of  magic  I 

Nature  had  sown  in  the  heart  of  this  poor  girl  the  seeds  of  vir- 
tue never  destined  to  ripen.  The  l^'ssons  of  adversity  are  not  al- 
ways salutary;  sometimes  they  soften  and  amend,  but  as  often 
they  indurate  and  pervert.  If  we  consider  ourselves  more 
harshly  treated  by  fate  than  those  around  us,  and  do  not  acknowl- 
edge in  our  own  deeds  the  justice  of  the  severity,  we  become 
too  apt  to  deem  the  world  our  enemy,  to  case  ourselves  in  defi- 
ance, to  wrestle  against  our  softer  self,  and  to  indulge  the  darker 
gassions  which  are  so  easily  fermented  by  the  sense  of  injustice, 
old  early  into  slavery,  sentenced  to  a  sordid  task-master,  ex- 
changing her  situation,  only  yet  more  to  imbitterher  lot;  the 
kindlier  feelings,  naturally  profuse  in  the  breast  of  Nydia,  were 
nipped  and  blighted.  Her  sense  of  right  and  wrong  was  con- 
fused by  a  passion  to  which  she  had  so  madly  surrendered  her- 
self; and  the  same  intense  and  tragic  emotions  which  we  read  of 
in  the  women  of  the  classic  age — a  Myrrha,  a  Medea — and  which 
hurried  and  swept  away  the  whole  soul  when  once  delivered  to 
love — ruled  and  rioted  m  her  breast. 

Time  nassed:  a  light  step  entered  the  chamber  where  Nydia 
yet  indulged  her  gloomy  meditations. 

'*  Oh,  thanked  be  the  immortal  gods  !"  said  Julia.  "  I  have 
returned,  I  have  left  the  terrible  cavern  I  Come,  Nydia,  let  us 
away  forthwith  I" 

"  Oh  I"  said  she,  tremblingly,  "  such  a  scene  I  such  fearful  in- 
cantations I  and  the  dead  face  of  the  hag  I  But,  let  us  not  talk 
of  it.  I  have  obtained  the  potion;  she  pledges  its  effect.  My 
rival  shall  be  suddenly  indifferent  to  his  eye,  and  I,  I  alone,  the 
idol  of  Glaucus  I'»  ^s* 

'*'orlaucus!"  exclaimed  Nydia.   .  «'Tv.if 

••Ay I  I  told  thee,  gurl,  at  tot,  that  it  w^s  mt  fclie  Ather**^  ^^ 


166  TEE  LAST  DAYH  OF  POMPEII. 

whom  I  loved:  but  I  see  now  that  I  may  trust  thee  wholly;  it  if 
the  beautiful  Greek  I" 

What,  then,  were  Nydia's  emotions?  She  had  connived,  she  had 
assisted,  in  tearing  Glaucus  from  lone;  but  only  to  transfer,  by 
all  the  power  of  magic,  his  affections  yet  more  hopelessly  to 
another.  Her  heart  swelled  almost  to  suffocation;  she  gasped  for 
breath.  In  the  darkness  of  the  vehicle,  Julia  did  not  perceive  the 
agitation  of  her  companion;  she  went  on  rapidly  dilating  on  the 
promised  effect  of  her  acquisition,  and  on  her  approaching  tri- 
imiph  over  lone,  ever  now  and  then  abruptly  digi-essing  to  the 
horror  of  the  scene  she  had  quitted,  the  unmoved  mien  of  Arba- 
ces,  and  his  authority  over  the  dreadful  saga. 

Meanwhile  Nydia  recovered  her  self-possession:  a  thought 
flashed  across  her;  she  slept  in  the  chamber  of  Julia — she  might 
possess  herself  of  the  potion. 

They  arrived  at  the  house  of  Diomed,  and  descended  to  Julia's 
apartment,  where  the  night's  repast  awaited  them. 

"  Drink,  Nydia,  thou  must  be  cold;  the  air  was  chill  to-night; 
as  for  me,  my  veins  are  yet  ice." 

And  Julia  unhesitatingly  quaffed  deep  draughts  of  the  spiced 
wine. 

"Thou  hast  the  potion,"  said  Nydia;  **letme  hold  it  in  my 
hands.     How  small  the  phial  is?  of  what  color  is  the  draught?" 

*'  Clear  as  crystal,"  replied  Julia,  as  she  retook  the  philter; 
*•  thou  couldst  not  tell  it  from  this  water.  The  witch  asvsures  m© 
it  is  tasteless.  Small  though  the  phial,  it  suffices  for  a  life's  fidelity; 
it  is  to  be  poured  into  any  liquid;  and  Glaucus  will  only  know 
what  he  has  quaffed  by  the  effect." 

**  Exactly  like  this  water  in  appearance?"* 

"  Yes,  sparkling  and  colorless  as  this.  How  bright  it  seemsl  it 
is  as  the  very  essence  of  moonlit  dews.  Bright  thingi  how  thou 
shinest  on  my  hopes  through  thy  crystal  vasel" 

**  And  how  is  it  sealed?" 

"  But  by  one  little  stopper — I  withdraw  it  now — the  draught 
eives  no  odor.  Strange,  that  which  speaks  to  neither  sense  should 
uius  command  all  I" 

"  Is  the  effect  instantaneous?'* 

*'  Usually — but  sometimes  it  remains  dormant  for  a  few  hours.** 

"  Oh,  how  sweet  is  this  perfume!"  said  Nydia,  suddenly,  as  she 
took  up  a  small  bottle  on  the  table,  and  bent  over  its  fragrant 
contents. 

•*  Thinkest  thou  so?  the  bottle  is  set  ^vith  gems  of  some  value. 
Thou  wouldst  not  have  the  bracelet  yestermorn;  wilt  thou  take 
the  bottler 

*•  It  ought  to  be  such  ]>erfumes  as  these  that  should  remind  one 
who  cannot  see  of  the  generous  Julia.  If  the  bottle  be  not  too 
costly " 

"  Oh  I  I  have  a  thousand  costlier  ones:  take  it,  child  I** 

Nydia  bowed  her  gratitude,  and  placed  the  bottle  in  her  vest. 
.^    '*  And  the  draught  would  be  equally  efficacious,  whoever  ad- 
ministers it  ?" 
*  If  tb©  woet  bldeo\i9  hag  beneath  the  sun  bestow^  it,  euch  ig 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  167 

Its  asserted  virtue  that  Glaucus  would  deem  her  beautiful,  and 
none  but  her !" 

Julia,  warmed  by  wine,  and  the  reaction  of  her  spirits,  was 
now  all  animation  and  delight;  she  laughed  loud,  and  talked  on  a 
hundred  matters— nor  was  it  till  the  night  had  advanced  far  to- 
ward morning  that  she  summoned  her  slaves  and  undressed. 

When  they  were  dismissed,  she  said  to  Nydia 

*'  I  will  not  suffer  this  holy  draught  to  quit  my  presence  till  the 
hour  comes  for  its  use.  Lie  under  my  pillow,  bright  spirit,  and 
give  me  happy  dreams  1" 

So  saying,  she  placed  the  potion  under  her  pillow.  Nydia's 
heart  beat  violently. 

"  Why  dost  thou  drink  that  unmixed  water,  Nydia  ?  Take  the 
wine  by  its  side." 

"I  am  fevered,"  replied  the  blind  girl,  "  and  the  water  cools 
me.  I  will  place  this  bottle  by  my  bedside;  it  refreshes  in  these 
summer  nights,  when  the  dews  of  sleep  fall  not  on  our  lips. 
Fair  Julia,  I  must  leave  thee  very  early— so  lone  bids;  perhaps 
before  thou  art  awake;  accept,  therefore,  now,  my  congratula- 
tions." 

"Thanks;  when  next  we  meet,  you  may  find  Glaucus  at  my 
feet."  ^      ^ 

They  had  retired  to  their  couches,  and  Julia,  worn  out  by  the 
excitement  of  the  day,  soon  slept.  But  anxious  and  burning 
thoughts  rolled  over  the  mind  of  the  wakeful  Thessahan.  She 
listened  to  the  calm  breathing  of  Julia;  and  her  ear,  accuslomed 
to  the  finest  distinctions  of  sound,  speedily  assured  her  of  the 
deep  slumber  of  her  companion. 

*'  Now  befriend  me,  Venus  I"  said  she  softly. 

She  rose  gently,  and  poured  the  perfume  from  the  gift  of  Julia 
unon  the  marble  floor — she  rinsed  it  several  times  carefully  with 
the  water  that  was  beside  her,  and  then  easily  finding  the  bed  of 
JuKa  (for  night  to  her  was  as  day),  she  pressed  her  hand  under 
the  pillow  and  seized  the  potion.  Julia  stirred  not,  her  breath 
regularlv  fanned  the  burning  cheek  of  the  blind  girl.  Nydia, 
then,  opening  the  phial,  poured  its  contents  into  the  bottle, 
wliicli  easily  contained  them;  and  then  refilling  the  former  res- 
ervoir of  the  potion  with  limpid  water  which  JuUa  had  assured 
her  it  so  resembled,  she  once  more  placed  the  phial  in  its  fornaer 
place.  She  then  stole  again  to  her  couch,  and  waited — with 
what  thoughts  I — the  dawning  day. 

The  sun  had  risen— Juha  slept  still — Nydia  noiselessly  dressed 
herself,  placed  her  treasure  carefully  in  her  vest,  took  up  her 
staff,  and  hastened  to  quit  the  house. 

The  porter,  Medon,  saluted  her  kindly  as  she  descended  the  steps 
that  led  to  the  street;  she  heard  him  not;  her  mind  was  confused 
and  lost  in  the  whiii  of  tumultuous  thoughts,  each  thought  a 
passion.  She  felt  the  pure  morning  air  upon  her  cheek,  but  it 
cooled  not  her  scorching  veins. 

*'  Glaucus,"  she  murmured,  **  all  the  love-charms  of  the  wildest 
magic  could  not  make  thee  love  me  as  I  love  thee.  lone'— ah, 
away  hesitationl  away  remorsel    Glaucus,  my  fate  is  in  thjf 


168  THE  LAST  DA  T8  OF  POMPEIL 

emUe;  and  tliinel    O  hope  I    O  joy  I    O  transport— f/iy  fate  k  ti 
these  bauds." 

BOOK  THE  FOURTH. 


CHAPTER  L 

KEFLECTIONS  ON  THE  ZEAL  OF  EARLY  CHRISITANS— TWO  MEH 
COME  TO  A  PERILOUS  RESOLVE— WALLS  HAVE  EAR&— PAB« 
TICULARLY  SACRED  WALLS. 

Whoever  regards  the  early  history  of  Christianity,  will  per- 
ceive how  necessary  to  its  triumph  was  that  fierce  spirit  of  zeal, 
which,  fearing  no  danger,  accepting  no  compromise,  inspired  its 
champions  and  sustained  its  martyrs.  In  a  dominant  church  the 
genius  of  intolerance  betrays  its  cause;  in  a  weak  and  persecuted 
church,  the  same  genius  mainly  supports.  It  was  necessary  to 
scorn,  to  loathe,  to  abhor  the  creeds  of  other  men,  in  order  to 
conquer  the  temptations  which  they  presented.  It  was  necessary 
rigidly  to  believe  not  only  that  the  Gospel  was  the  true  faith,  but 
the  sole  true  faith  that  saved,  in  order  to  nerve  the  disciple  to  the 
austerity  of  its  doctrine,  and  to  encourage  him  to  the  sacred  and 
perilous  chivalry  of  converting  the  Polytheist  and  the  Heathen. 
The  sectarian  sternness  wliich  confined  virtue  and  heaven  to  a 
chosen  few,  wliich  saw  demons  in  other  gods,  and  the  penalties 
of  hell  in  another  religion — made  the  beUever  naturally  anxioua 
to  convert  all  to  whom  he  felt  tlie  ties  of  human  affection;  and 
the  circle  thus  traced  by  benevolence  to  man  was  yet  more  wid- 
ened by  a  desire  for  the  glory  of  God. 

It  was  for  the  honor  of  the  Christian  faith  that  the  Cliristian 
boldly  forced  his  tenets  upon  tlie  skepticism  of  some,  the  repug- 
nance of  othei-s,  the  sage  contempt  of  the  philosopher,  the  pious 
shudder  of  the  people:  his  very  intolerance  supplied  him  with 
his  fittest  instruments  of  success;  and  the  soft  Heathen  began  at 
last  to  imagine  there  must  indeed  be  something  holy  in  a  zeal 
wholly  foreign  to  his  experience,  which  stopped  at  no  ob- 
Btacle,  dreaded  no  danger,  and  even  at  the  torture,  or  on  the 
scaffold,  referred  a  dispute  far  other  than  the  calm  differences 
of  speculative  philosophy  to  the  tribunal  of  an  Eternal  Judge. 
It  was  thus  that  the  same  fervor  which  made  the  Churchman  of 
the  middle  age  a  bigot  without  mercy,  made  the  Christian  of 
early  days  a  hero  without  fear. 

Of  these  more  fiery,  daring,  and  earnest  natures,  not  the  least 
earnest  was  Olinthus.  No  sooner  had  Apcecides  been  received 
by  the  rites  of  baptism  into  the  bosom  of  the  church,  than  the 
Nazarene  hastened  to  make  him  conscious  of  the  impossibility  to 
retain  the  office  and  robes  of  priesthood.  He  could  not,  it  was 
evident,  profess  to  worship  God,  and  continue  even  outwardly 
to  honor  the  idolatrous  altars  of  tlie  Fiend. 

Nor  was  this  all:  the  sanguine  and  impetuous  mind  of  Olin- 
thus beheld  in  the  power  of  Apt^cides  the  means  of  divulging  to 
the  deluded  people  the  juggling  mysteries  of  the  oracular  Isis. 

B«  thought  Heaven  had  sent  this  instrument  of  his  design  ia 


]THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEXL  lift 

order  to  disabuse  the  eyes  of  the  crowd,  and  prepare  the  waj;. 
perchance,  for  the  conversion  of  a  whole  city.  He  did  not  hesi» 
tate  then  to  appeal  to  all  the  new-kindled  enthusiasm  of  Apeeci- 
des,  to  arouse  his  courage  and  to  stimulate  his  zeal.  They  met, 
according  to  previous  agreement,  the  evening  after  the  baptism 
of  Apsecides,  in  the  grove  of  Cybele,  which  we  have  before  de- 
Bcribed. 

'*  At  the  next  solemn  consultation  of  the  oracle,"  said  Olin- 
thus,  as  he  proceeded  in  the  warmth  of  his  address,  *'  advance 
yourself  to  the  railing,  proclaim  aloud  to  the  people  the  deception 
they  endure,  invite  them  to  enter,  to  be  themselves  the  witness 
of  the  gross  but  artful  mechanism  of  imposture  thou  hast  de- 
scribed to  me.  Fear  not — the  Lord,  who  protected  Daniel,  shall 
protect  thee;  ive,  the  community  of  Christians,  will  be  among 
the  crowd;  ive  will  urge  on  the  shrinking;  and  in  the  first  flush 
of  the  popular  indignation  and  shame,  I  myself,  upon  those  very 
altars,  will  plant  the  pahn-branch  typical  of  the  gospel — and  to 
my  tongue  shall  descend  the  rushing  Spirit  of  the  living  God." 

Heated  and  excited  as  he  was,  this  suggestion  was  not  un» 
pleasing  to  Apsecides.  He  was  rejoiced  at  so  early  an  opportu- 
nity of  distinguishing  his  faith  in  his  new  sect,  and  to  his  holier 
feelings  were  added  those  of  a  vindictive  loathing  at  the  impo- 
sition he  had  himself  suffered,  and  d  desire  to  avenge  it.  In 
that  sanguine  and  elastic  overbouud  of  obstacles  (the  rashness 
necessary  to  all  who  undertake  venturous  and  lofty  actions), 
neither  OHnthus  nor  the  proselyte  perceived  the  impediments  to 
the  success  of  their  scheme,  which  might  be  found  in  the  rever- 
ent superstition  of  the  people  themselvea,  who  would  probably 
be  loath,  before  the  sacred  altars  of  the  great  Egyptian  goddess, 
to  believe  even  the  testimony  of  her  priest  against  her  power. 

Apsecides  then  assented  to  this  proposal  with  a  readiness  which 
delighted  Olinthus.  They  parted  with  the  understanding  that 
Olinthus  should  confer  with  the  more  important  of  his  Christian 
brethren  on  his  great  enterprise;  should  receive  their  advice  and 
the  assurance  of  their  support  on  the  eventful  day.  It  so 
chanced  that  one  of  the  festivals  of  Isis  was  to  be  held  on  the 
second  day  after  this  conference.  The  festival  proffered  a  ready 
occasion  for  the  design.  They  appointed  to  meet  once  more  on 
the  next  evening  at  the  same  spot;  and  in  that  meeting  were 
finally  to  be  settled  the  order  and  details  of  the  disclosure  for 
the  following  day. 

It  happened  that  the  latter  part  of  this  conference  had  been 
held  near  the  sacellum,  or  small  chapel,  which  I  have  described 
in  the  early  part  of  this  work;  and  so  soon  as  the  forms  of  th© 
Christian  and  the  priest  had  disappeared  from  the  grove,  a  dark 
and  ungainly  figure  emerged  from  behind  the  chapel. 

**Ihave  tracked  you  with  some  effect,  my  brother  flamen," 
soliloquized  the  eaves-dropper;  ''you,  the  priest  of  Isis,  have  not 
for  mere  idle  discussion  conferred  with  this  gloomy  Christian. 
Alas  I  that  I  could  not  hear  all  your  precious  plot;  enough  1  I  find, 
at  least,  that  you  meditate  reveahng  the  sacred  mysteries,  and 
that  to-morrow  you  meet  again  at  this  place  to  plan  tbe  how  and 
the  when.    May  Osiris  sharpen  my  ears  then,  to  detect  the  wholt 


m  TEE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEIL 

of  your  unheard-of  audacity  I  When  I  have  learned  more  I  musi 
conf esr  at  once  witb  Arbaces.  We  will  frustrate  you,  my  friends, 
deep  as  you  think  yourselves.  At  present  my  breast  is  a  locked 
treasury  of  yoiir  secret." 

Thus  muttering,   Calenus,  for  it  was  he,  wrapped  bis  rob© 
round  him,  and  strode  thoughtfully  homewaid. 


CHAPTER  n. 

i   CLASSIC  HOST,    CX)OK,    AM)    KITCHEN— APJECTDES  SEEKS  lONB— 
THEIR  CONYERSATION. 

It  was  then  the  day  for  Diomed's  banquet  to  the  most  select  of 
his  friends.  The  graceful  Glaucus,  the  beautiful  lone,  the  official 
Pansa,  the  high-born  Clodius,  the  immortal  Fulvius,  the  ex- 
quisite Lepidus,  the  epicurean  Sallust,  were  not  the  only  honor- 
ers  of  his  festival.  He  expected,  also,  an  invalid  senator  from 
Rome  (a  man  of  considerable  repute  and  favor  at  court),  and  a 
great  warrior  from  Herfculaneum,  who  had  fought  with  Titus 
against  the  Jews,  and  having  enriched  himself  prodigiously  in 
the  wars,  was  always  told  by  his  friends  that  liis  country  was 
eternally  indebted  to  his  disinterested  exertions!  The  party, 
however,  extended  to  a  yet  greater  number:  for  although,  criti- 
cally speaking,  it  was,  at  one  time,  thought  inelegant  amoujg  the 
Romans  to  entertain  less  than  three  or  more  than  nine  at  ^heir 
banquets,  yet  this  rule  was  easily  disregarded  by  the  osteutatious. 
And  we  are  told,  indeed,  in  history,  that  one  of  the  most  splen- 
did of  these  entertainers  usually  feasted  a  select  party  of  three 
hundred.  Diomed,  however,  more  modest,  contented  himself 
with  doubling  the  number  of  the  Muses.  His  party  consisted  of 
eighteen,  no  unfashionable  number  in  the  present  day. 

It  was  the  morning  of  Diomed's  banquet;  and  Diomed  himself, 
though  he  greatlv  affected  the  gentleman  and  the  scholar,  re- 
tained enough  of  his  mercantile  experience  to  know  that  a  mas- 
ter's eye  makes  a  ready  servant.  Accordingly,  with  his  tunic 
imgirdled  on  his  portly  stomach,  his  easy  sHppers  on  his  feet,  a 
small  wand  in  his  hand,  wherewith  he  now  directed  the  gaze, 
and  now  corrected  the  back,  of  some  duller  menial,  he  went 
from  chamber  to  chamber  of  his  costly  villa. 

He  did  not  disdain  even  a  visit  to  that  sacred  apartment  in 
which  the  priests  of  the  festival  prepare  their  offerings.  On  en- 
tering the  kitchen,  his  ears  were  agreeablj^  stunned  by  the  noise 
of  dishes  and  pans,  of  oaths  and  commands.  Small  as  this  in- 
disix^nsable  chamber  seems  to  have  been  in  all  the  houses  of 
Pompeii,  it  was,  nevertheless,  usually  fitted  up  with  all  that 
amazing  variety  of  stoves  and  shai>es,  stew-pans  and  sauce-pans, 
cutters  and  molds,  without  wliich  a  cook  of  spirit,  no  matter 
whether  he  be  an  ancient  or  a  modern,  declares  it  utterly  impos- 
sible that  he  can  give  you  anything  to  eat.  And  as  fuel  wai 
then,  as  now,  dear  and  scarce  in  those  regions,  great  seems  to 
have  been  the  dexterity  exercised  in  preparing  as  many  things  as 
possible  with  as  little  lire.  An  admirable  contrivance  of  this 
nature  may  still  be  seen  in  the  NeapoUtan  Musemn,  viz.,  a  port- 
able kitchen,  about  the  size  of  a  folio  volume,  containing  stoveb 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIL  171 

for  four  dishes,  and  an  apparatus  for  heating  water  and  other 
beverages. 

Across  the  small  kitchen  flitted  many  forms  which  the  quick 
eye  of  the  master  did  not  recognize. 

"  Oh!"  grumbled  he  to  himself,  *'  that  cursed  Congrio  hath  in- 
vited a  whole  legion  of  cooks  to  assist  him.  They  won't  serve 
for  nothing,  and  this  is  another  item  in  the  total  of  my  day's  ex- 
penses. By  Bacchus!  thrice  lucky  shall  I  be  if  the  slaves  do  not 
help  themselves  to  some  of  the  drinking  vessels;  ready,  alas,  are 
their  hands,  capacious  are  their  tunics.    Me  miserumP' 

The  cooks,  however,  worked  on,  seemingly  heedless  of  the  ap- 
parition of  Diomed. 

"  Ho,  Euclio,  your  egg-pan  I  What,  is  this  the  largest?  it  only 
holds  thirty-three  eggs;  in  the  houses  I  usually  serve,  the  small- 
est egg-pan  holds  fifty,  if  .need  be!" 

* '  The  unconscionable  rogue!"  thought  Diomed;  **  he  talks  of  eggs 
as  if  they  were  a  sesterce  a  hundred!" 

"  By  Mercury!"  cried  a  pert  Uttle  disciple,  scarce  in  his  noviti- 
ate; "  whoever  saw  such  antique  sweetmeat  shapes  as  these? — 
it  is  impossible  to  do  credit  to  one's  art  with  such  rude  materials. 
Why,  Sallust's  commonest  sweetmeat  shape  represents  the  whole 
siege  of  Troy;  Hector  and  Paris,  and  Helen — with  little  Astyanax 
and  the  Wooden  Horse  into  the  bargain!" 

*'  Silence,  fool!"  said  Congrio,  the  cook  of  the  house,  who  seem- 
ed to  leave  the  chief  part  of  the  battle  to  his  alKes.  "  My  mas- 
ter, Diomed,  is  not  one  of  those  expensive  good-for-naughts,  who 
must  have  the  last  fashion,  cost  what  it  will!" 

"  Thou  liest,  base  slave!"  cried  Diomed,  in  a  great  passion — 
"  and  thou  costest  me  already  enough  to  have  ruined  Lucullus 
himself!  Come  out  of  thy  den,  I  want  to  talk  to  thee." 

The  slave,  with  a  sly  wink  at  his  confederates,  obeyed  the 
command. 

"  Man  of  three  letters,'*  said  Diomed,  with  his  face  of  solemn 
anger,  *'  how  didst  thou  dare  to  invite  all  those  rascals  into  my 
house?    I  see  thief  written  in  every  line  of  their  faces." 

"  Yet,  I  assure  you,  master,  that  they  are  men  of  most  respect- 
able character — the  best  cooks  of  the  place;  it  is  a  great  favor  to 
get  tliem.    But  for  my  sake " 

*'  Thy  sake,  unhappy  Congrio!"  inteiTupted  Diomed;  "  and  by 
what  purloined  moneys  of  mine,  by  wliat  reserved  filchings  from 
marketing,  by  what  goodly  meats  converted  into  grease,  and  sold 
in  the  suburbs,  by  what  false  charges  for  bronzes  marred,  and 
earthenware  broken — hast  thou  been  enabled  to  make  them 
serve  thee  for  thy  sake?" 

"  Nay,  master,  do  not  impeach  my  honesty  I  May  the  gods  de- 
sert me  if " 

*' Swear  not!'*  again  interrupted  the  choleric  Diomed,  *'for 
then  the  gods  will  smite  thee  for  a  perjurer,  and  I  shall  lose  my 
cook  on  the  eve  of  dinner.  But,  enough  of  tliis  at  present;  keep 
a  sharp  eye  on  thy  ill-favored  assistants,  and  tell  me  no  tales  to- 
morrow of  vases  broken,  and  cups  miraculously  vanished,  or  thy 
whole  back  shall  be  one  pain.  And  hark  theel  thou  knowest 
that  thou  hast  made  me  pay  for  those  Phrygian  attagens  enoug;b^ 


in  TBM  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPElt 

by  Hercules,  to  have  feasted  a  sober  man  for  a  year  torether;  8e« 
that  they  be  not  one  iota  over-roasted.  The  last  time,  0  Congrio, 
that  I  gave  a  banquet  to  my  friends,  when  thy  vanity  did  so 
boldly  undertake  the  becoming  appearance  of  a  Melian  crane, 
thou  knowest  it  came  up  like  a  stone  from  ^Etna,  as  if  alJ  the 
fires  of  Phlegethon  had  been  scorching  out  its  juices.  Be  mod- 
est this  time,  Congrio,  wary  and  modest.  Modesty  is  the  nurse 
of  great  actions;  and  in  all  other  things,  as  in  tliis,  if  thou  wilt 
not  spare  thy  master's  purse,  at  least  consult  thy  master's  glory." 

"There  shall  not  be  such  a  coena  seen  at  Pompeii  since  the 
dajB  of  Hercules." 

"  Softly,  softly — thy  cursed  boasting  again  1  But  I  say,  Congrio, 
yon  Jiomununculus — yon  pigmy  assailant  of  my  cranes — ^^on  pert- 
tongued  neophyte  of  the  Idtchen,  was  there  aught  but  insolence 
on  his  tongue  when  he  maligned  the  comeliness  of  my  sweet- 
meat shapes?    I  would  not  be  out  of  the  fashion,  Congrio." 

**  It  is  but  the  custom  of  our  cooks,"  replied  Congrio,  grave- 
ly, *'  to  undervalue  our  tools,  in  order  to  increase  the  effect  of  our 
art.  The  sweetmeat  shape  is  a  fair  shape,  and  a  lovely;  but  I 
would  recommend  my  master,  at  the  first  occasion,  to  purchase 
some  new  ones  of  a ^" 

"  That  will  suflSce,"  exclaimed  Diomed,  who  seemed  resolved 
never  to  allow  his  slave  to  finish  his  sentences.  *'  Now,  resume 
thy  charge — shine — eclipse  thyself.  Let  men  envy  Diomed  his 
cook,  let  the  slaves  of  Pompeii  style  thee  Congrio  the  great!  Gol 
yet  stay,  thou  hast  not  spent  all  the  moneys  I  gave  thee  for  the 
marketing?" 

**  *  Alir — alas  I  the  nightingales'  tongues  and  the  Roman  toma" 
eula*  and  the  oysters  from  Britain,  and  sundry  other  things,  too 
numerous  now  to  recite,  are  yet  left  unpaid  for.  But  what  mat- 
ter? every  one  trusts  the  Arcliimagiris]  of  Diomed  the  wealthy!" 

"  Oh,  unconscionable  prodigal! — what  waste!  what  profusion! 
I  am  ruined!  But  go,  hasten— inspect!  taste!  perform!  surpass 
thyself!  Let  the  Roman  senator  not  despise  the  poor  Pompeian. 
Away,  slave,  and  remember  the  Phrygian  attagens." 

The  chief  disappeared  within  his  natural  domain,  and  Diomed 
rolled  back  liis  portly  presence  to  the  more  courtly  chambers. 
All  was  to  his  liking,  the  flowers  were  fresh,  the  fountains  play- 
ed briskly,  the  mosaic  pavements  were  as  smooth  as  mirrors. 

**  Where  is  my  daughter  Julia?"  he  asked. 

**Atthebath.'» 

"Ah!  that  reminds  mel— time  wanesl— and  I  must  batb« 
also." 

Our  story  runs  to  Apascides.  On  awakening  that  day  from 
the  broken  and  feverish  sleep  which  had  followed  his  adoption 
of  a  faith  so  strikingly  and  sternly  at  variance  with  that  in 
which  his  youth  had  been  nurtured,  the  young  priest  could 
scarcely  imagine  that  he  was  not  yet  in  a  dream;  he  had  crossed 
the  fatal  river — the  past  was  henceforth  to  have  no  sympathy 

♦  " candldiUl  divlna  tomacula  VorcV^— Juvenal^  ss,  t  855w  A  rlc^i 

and  delicate  species  of  sausage. 

f  ^rchtmaglris  was  the  lofty  title  of  the  chief  cook. 


THE  LAST  BAYS  OF  POMPEII.  175 

with  the  future;  two  worlds  were  distinct  and  separate— that 
which  had  been,  from  that  which  was  to  be.  To  what  a  bold 
and  adventurous  enterprise  he  had  pledged  his  life!— to  unveil 
the  mysteries  in  which  he  had  participated — to  desecrate  the 
altai-s  he  had  served— to  denounce  the  goddess  whose  ministering 
robe  he  wore!  Slowly  he  became  sensible  of  the  hatred  and  the 
hon-orhe  should  provoke  among  the  pious,  even  if  successful;  if 
frustrated  in  his  daring  attempt,  what  penalties  might  he  not 
incur  for  an  offense  hitlierto  unheard  of— for  which  no  specific 
law,  derived  from  experience,  was  prepared;  and  which,  for  that 
very  reason,  precedents,  dragged  from  the  sharpest  armory  of 
obsolete  and  inapplicable  legislation,  would  probably  be  distorted 
to  meet!  His  friends— the  sister  of  his  youth— could  he  expect 
justice,  though  he  might  receive  compassion,  from  them?  This 
brave  and  heroic  act  would  by  their  heathen  eyes  be  regarded, 
perhaps,  as  a  heinous  apostasy— at  the  best,  as  a  pitiable  madness. 

He  dared,  he  renounced,  everything  in  this  world,  in  the  hope 
of  securing  that  eternity  in  the  next,  which  had  so  suddenly 
been  revealed  to  him.  While  these  thoughts  on  the  one  hand  in- 
vaded his  breast,  on  the  other  hand  his  pride,  his  courage,  and 
his  virtue,  mingled  with  reminiscences  of  revenge  for  deceit,  of 
indignant  disgust  at  fraud,  conspired  to  raise  and  to  support 
him. 

The  conflict  was  sharp  and  keen;  but  his  new  feelings 
trumphed  over  his  old;  and  a  mighty  argument  in  favor  of  wrest- 
ling with  the  sanctities  of  old  opinions  and  hereditary  forms 
might  be  found  in  the  conquest  over  both,  achieved  by  that 
humble  priest.  Had  the  early  Christians  been  more  controlled 
by  "the  solemn  plausibihties  of  custom" — less  of  democrats  in 
the  pure  and  lofty  acceptation  of  that  preverted  word— Chris- 
tianity would  have  perished  in  its  cradle! 

As  each  priest  in  succession  slept  several  nights  together  in 
the  chambers  of  the  temple,  the  term  imposed  on  Apsecides  v/as 
not  yet  completed;  when  he  had  risen  from  his  couch,  attired 
himself,  as  usual,  in  his  robes,  and  left  his  narrow  chamber,  ho 
found  himself  before  the  altars  of  the  temple. 

In  the  exhaustion  of  his  late  emotions  he  had  slept  far  into  the 
morning,  and  the  vertical  sun  poured  its  fervid  beams  over  the 
sacred  place. 

''Salve,  Apsecides!"  said  a  voice,  whose  natural  asperity  was 
smoothed  by  long  artifice  into  an  almost  displeasing  softness  of 
tone.  "  Thou  art  late  abroad;  has  the  goddess  revealed  herself 
to  thee  in  visions?" 

"  Could  she  reveal  her  true  self  to  the  people,  Calenus,  how 
incenseless  would  be  these  altars!" 

"That,"  rephed  Calenus,  "may  possibly  be  true;^  but  the  deity 
is  wise  enough  to  hold  commune  with  none  but  priests." 

"A  time  may  come  when  she  will  be  unveiled  without  her  own 
acquiescence." 

"It  is  not  likely; she  has  triumphed  for  countless  ages.  And 
that  which  has  so  long  stood  the  test  of  time  rarely  succumbs  to 
the  lust  of  novelt7.  But  hark  ye,  YOung  brother!  these  gayuigs 
are  indiscveet.* 


174  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  P03IPEIL 

**It  is  not  for  thee  to  silence  them,"  replied  ApsBcidees, 
haughtily. 

•'Sohotl— -yet  I  will  not  quarrel  with  thee.  "Why,  my  Apae- 
cides,  has  not  the  Egyptian  convinced  thee  of  the  necessity  ol 
our  dwelling  together  in  unity?  Has  he  not  convinced  thee  of 
the  wisdom  of  deluding  the  people  and  enjoying  ourselves?  If, 
not,  oh  brother  I  he  is  not  the  great  magician  he  is  esteemed.** 

*'  Thou,  then,  hast  shared  his  lessons?"  said  Apaecides,  with  a 
hollow  smile. 

•'Ay I  but  I  stood  less  in  need  of  them  than  thou.  Nature  had 
already  gifted  me  with  the  love  of  pleasure,  and  the  desire  of 
gain  and  power.  Long  is  the  way  that  leads  the  voluptuary  to 
the  severities  of  life;  but  it  is  only  one  step  from  pleasant  sin  to 
sheltering  hypocrisy.  Beware  the  vengeance  of  the  goddess,  if 
the  shortness  of  that  step  be  disclosed  I" 

"  Beware,  thou,  the  hour  when  the  tomb  shall  bo  rent,  and  the 
rottenness  exposed,"  returned  Apaecides,  solemnly.     *'  Vale^ 

With  these  words  he  left  the  flamen  to  his  meditations.  When 
he  got  a  few  paces  from  the  temple,  he  turned  to  look  back. 
Calenus  had  already  disappeared  in  the  entry  room  of  the  priests, 
for  it  now  approached  the  hour  of  that  repast  which,  called 
nrandium  by  tlie  ancients,  answers  in  point  of  date  to  the 
oreakfast  of  the  moderns.  The  white  and  graceful  fane  gleamed 
brightly  in  the  sun.  Upon  the  altar  before  it  rose  the  incense  and 
bloomed  the  garlands.  The  priest  gazed  long  and  wistfully  upon 
the  scene — it  was  the  last  time  that  it  was  ever  beheld  by  him? 

He  then  turned  and  pursued  Ms  way  slowly  toward  the  house 
of  lone;  for  before,  possibly,  the  last  tie  that  united  them  was  cut 
in  twain — before  the  imcertain  peril  of  the  next  day  was  incur- 
red, he  was  anxious  to  see  his  last  surviving  reLitive,  his  fondes't 
as  his  earliest  friend. 

He  arrived  at  her  house,  and  found  her  in  the  garden  with 
Nydia. 

"This  is  kind,  Apaecides,'*  said  lone,  joyfully;  "and  how 
eagerly  have  I  wished  to  see  theel — what  thanks  do  I  not  owe 
thee?  How  churlish  hast  thou  been  to  answer  none  of  my  letters 
—to  abstain  from  coming  hither  to  receive  the  expression  of  my 
gratitude!  Oh,  thou  hast  assisted  to  preserve  thy  sister  from  dis- 
honor! What,  what  can  she  say  to  thank  thee,  now  thou  art  come 
at  last?" 

"  My  sweet  lone,  thou  owest  me  no  gratitude,  for  thy  cause 
was  mine.  Let  us  avoid  that  subject;  let  us  recur  not  to  that 
impious  man— how  hateful  to  both  of  us!  I  may  have  i  speedy 
opportunity  to  teach  the  world  the  nature  of  his  pretended 
wisdom  and  h}^)ocritical  severity,  But  let  us  sit  down,  my 
sister;  I  am  wearied  with  the  heat  of  the  sun;  let  us  sit  in 
yonder  shade,  and  for  a  little  while  longer,  be  to  each  other  what 
we  have  been." 

Beneath  a  wide  plane-tree  with  the  cistus  and  the  arbutus 
clustering  around  tnem,  the  living  fountain  before,  the  green- 
sward beneath  their  feet;  the  gay  cicada,  once  so  dear  to  Athens, 
rising  merrily  ever  and  anon  amid  the  grass;  the  butterfly, 
beai?tiful  emblem  of  t)ie  soul,  dedicated  to  Psyche,  and  which  haa 


TBE  LAST  DATS  OF  POMPEII.  178 

continued  to  furnish  illustrations  to  the  Christian  bard,  rich  iu 
the  glowing  colors  caught  from  Sicilian  skies,  hovering  about 
the  sunny  flowers  itself,  like  a  winged  flower— in  this  spot,  and 
this  scene,  the  brother  and  sister  sat  together  for  the  last  time  on 
earth.  You  may  tread  now  on  the  same  place;  but  the  garden 
is  no  more,  the  columns  are  shattered,  the  fountain  has  ceased  to 
play.  Let  the  traveler  search  among  the  ruins  of  Pompeii  for 
the  house  of  lone.  Its  remains  are  yet  visible;  but  I  will  not 
betray  them  to  the  gaze  of  common-place  tourists.  He  who  is 
more  sensitive  than  the  herd  will  discover  them  easily;  when  he 
has  done  so,  let  him  keep  the  secret. 

They  sat  down,  and  Nydia,  glad  to  be  alone,  retired  to  the 
farther  end  of  the  garden. 

"lone,  my  sister,"  said  the  young  convert,  "place  your  hand 
upon  my  brow;  let  me  feel  your  cool  touch.  Speak  to  me,  too, 
for  your  gentle  voice  is  like  a  breeze  that  hath  freshness  as  well 
as  music.  Speak  to  me,  but  forbear  to  bless  me!  Utter  not  one 
word  of  those  forms  of  speech  which  our  childhood  was  taught 
to  consider  sacred!" 

"  Alasl  and  what  then  shall  I  say?  Our  lanaoiage  of  affection 
is  so  woven  up  with  that  of  worship,  that  the  words  grow  chilled 
and  trite  if  I  banish  from  them  allusion  to  our  gods." 

^' Our  gods r  murmured  Apaecides,  with  a  shudder;  "thou 
slightest  my  request  already." 

"  Shall  I  speak  then  to  thee  only  of  Isis  ?' 
"The  Evil  Spirit!  No,  rather  be  dumb  forever,  unless,  at 
least  thou  canst— but  away,  away  this  talk  I  Not  now  will  we 
dispute  and  cavil;  not  now  will  we  judge  harshly  of  each  other. 
Thou,  regarding  me  as  an  apostate!  and  I  all  sorrow  and  shame 
for  thee  as  an  idolater.  No,  my  sister,  let  us  avoid  such  topics 
and  such  thoughts.  In  thy  sweet  presence  a  calm  falls  over  my 
spirit.  For  a  Uttle  while  I  forget.  As  I  thus  lay  my  temples  on 
thy  bosom,  as  I  thus  feel  thy  gentle  arm  embrace  me,  I  think 
that  we  are  children  once  more,  and  that  the  heaven  smiles 
equally  upon  us  both.  For  oh!  if  hereafter  I  escape,  no  matter 
what  peril;  and  it  be  permitted  me  to  address  thee  on  one  sacred 
and  awful  subject;  should  I  find  thine  ear  closed  and  thy  heart 
hardened,  what  hope  for  myself  could  countervail  the  despair  for 
thee  ?  In  thee,  my  sister,  I  behold  a  likeness  made  beautiful, 
made  noble,  of  myself.  ShaU  the  mirror  live  forever,  and  the 
form  itself  be  broken  as  the  potter's  clay  ?  Ah,  no— no— thou 
wilt  listen  to  me  yet!  Dost  thou  remember  how  we  went  into 
the  fields  by  Baise,  hand  in  hand  together,  to  pluck  the  flowers 
of  the  spring?  Even  so,  hand  in  hand,  shaU  we  enter  the  Eter- 
nal Garden,  and  crown  ourselves  with  imperishable  asphodel!" 

Wondering  and  bewildered  by  words  she  could  not  compre- 
hend, but  excited  even  to  tears  by  the  plaintiveness  of  their  tone, 
lone  hstened  to  these  outpourings  of  a  full  and  oppressed  heart. 
In  truth,  Apsecides  himself  was  softened  much  beyond  his  ordi- 
nary mood,  which  to  outward  seeming  was  usually  either  suUen 
or  impetuous.  For  the  noblest  desires  are  of  a  jealous  nature-— 
they  ingress,  they  absorb  the  soul,  and  often  leave  the  splenetio 
humors  stagnant  and  unheeded  at  the  surface^    Uiiheeamg  tho 


176  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIL 

petty  things  around  us,  we  are  deemed  morose:  impatient  at 
earthly  interruption  to  the  diviner  dreams,  we  are  thought  irri- 
table and  churlish.  For  as  there  is  no  chimera  vainer  than  the 
hope  that  one  human  heart  shall  find  sympathy  in  another,  so 
none  ever  interpret  us  with  justice;  and  none,  no,  not  our  near- 
est and  our  dearest  ties,  forbear  with  us  in  mercy!  When  we 
pre  dead  and  repentance  comes  too  late,  both  friend  and  foe  may 
wonder  to  think  how  little  there  was  in  us  to  forgive  I 

"  I  will  talk  to  thee  then  of  our  early  years,"  said  lone.  "Shall 
j'on  blind  girl  sing  to  thee  of  the  days  of  childhood  ?  Her  voice 
IS  sweet  and  musical,  and  she  hath  a  song  on  that  theme  which 
contains  none  of  those  allusions  it  pains  thee  to  hear." 

'*Dost  thou  remember  the  words,  my  sister?"  asked  ApaBcides. 

"Methinks  yes;  for  the  tune,  which  is  simple,  fixed  them  on 
my  memory." 

*'  Sing  to  me  then  thyself.  My  ear  is  not  in  unison  with  un- 
familiar voices;  and  thine,  lone,  full  of  household  associations, 
has  ever  been  more  sweet  than  all  the  hireling  melodies  of  Lycia 
or  Crete.     Sing  to  me  I" 

lone  beckoned  to  a  slave  that  stood  in  the  portico,  and  sending 
for  her  lute,  sang,  when  it  arrived,  to  a  tender  and  simple  air, 
the  following  verses: 

A  REGRET  FOR  CHILDHOOD. 
It  is  not  that  our  earlier  Heaven 
Escapes  its  April  showers 
Or  that  the  childhood's  heart  is  given 
No  snake  amid  the  flowers. 
Ah  !  twined  with  grief 
Each  brightest  leaf 
That's  wreathed  us  by  the  Hours ! 
Young  though  we  be,  the  Past  may  sting 

The  present  feed  its  soitow; 
But  hope  shines  bright  on  every  thing 
That  waits  us  with  the  morrow. 
Like  sun-lit  glades 
•  The  dimmest  shades 

Some  rosy  beam  can  borrow. 

It  Is  not  that  our  later  years 

Of  cares  are  woven  wholly, 
But  smiles  less  swiftly  chase  the  tears, 

And  wounds  are  heal'd  more  slowtjr. 
And  Memory's  vow 
To  lost  ones  now 
Make  joy  too  bright,  unholy. 
And  ever  fled  the  Iris  bow 

That  smiled  when  clouds  were  o*«r  as. 
If  storms  should  burst,  uncheer'd  we  go, 
A  drearier  waste  before  us; 
And  with  the  toj's 
Of  childish  joys, 
We've  broke  the  staff  that  bore  us. 

"Wisely  and  delicately  had  lone  chosen  that  song,  sad  tSMugh 
Its  burden  seemed;  for  when  we  are  deeplv  mournful,  discordant 
above  all  others  is  the  voice  of  mirth;  the  fittest  spell  is  that 
borrowed  from  melancholy  itself,  for  dark  thoughts   can.  tMI 


THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEIL  ITI 

softened  down  when  they  cannot  be  brightened:  so  they  lose  the 
precise  and  rigid  outlines  of  their  truth,  and  tneix  colors  melt 
into  the  ideal.  As  the  leech  applies  in  remedy  to  the  internal 
sore,  some  outward  irritation,  which,  by  a  gentler  wound,  draws 
away  the  venom  of  that  which  is  more  deadly,  thus,  in  the  rank- 
ling festers  of  the  mind,  our  art  is  to  divert  to  a  milder  sadness 
on  the  surface  the  pain  that  gnaweth  at  the  core.  And  so  with 
Apsecides;  yielding  to  the  silver  voice  that  reminded  him  of  the 
past,  and  told  but  of  half  the  sorrow  born  to  the  present,  he  for« 
got  his  more  immediate  and  fiery  sources  of  anxious  thought. 
He  spent  hours  in  making  lone  alternately  sing  to,  and  converse 
with  him;  and  when  he  rose  to  leave  her,  it  was  with  a  calmed 
and  lulled  mind. 

"  lone,"  said  he,  as  he  pressed  her  hand,  "  should  you  hear  my 
name  blackened  and  maligned,  will  you  credit  the  aspersion?" 

"  Never,  my  brother,  never  I" 

"  Dost  thou  not  imagine,  according  to  thy  belief,  that  the 
evil-doer  is  punished  hereafter,  and  the  good  rewarded?" 

"  Can  you  doubt  it?" 

"  Dost  thou  think,  then,  that  he  who  is  truly  good  should  sac- 
rifice every  selfish  interest  in  his  zeal  for  virtue?" 

"  He  who  doth  so  is  the  equal  of  the  gods." 

"And  thou  belie  vest  that,  according  to  the  purity  and  courage 
with  which  he  thus  acts,  shall  be  his  portion  of  bliss  beyond  the 
grave?" 

"  So  we  are  taught  to  hope." 

"  Kiss  me,  my  sister.  One  question  more.  Thou  art  to  be 
wedded  to  Glaucus:  perchance  that  marriage  may  separate  us 
more  hopelessly — but  not  of  this  speak  I  now;  thou  art  to  be 
married  to  Glaucus:  dost  thou  love  him?  Nay,  my  sister,  answer 
me  by  words." 

"  Yesl"  murmured  lone,  blushing. 

**  Dost  thou  feel  that,  for  his  sake,  thou  couldst  renounce  pride, 
brave  dishonor,  and  incur  death?  I  have  heard  that  when  wo- 
men really  love,  it  is  to  that  excess," 

**  My  brother,  all  this  could  I  do  for  Glaucus,  and  feel  that  it 
were  not  a  sacrifice.  There  is  no  sacrifice  to  those  who  love,  in 
what  is  borne  for  the  one  we  love." 

"  Enough  I  shall  woman  feel  thus  for  man,  and  man  feel  less 
devotion  to  his  God?" 

He  spoke  no  more.  His  whole  countenance  seemed  instinct 
and  inspired  with  a  divine  life:  his  chest  swelled  proudly,  his 
eyes  glowed;  on  his  forehead  was  writ  the  majesty  or  a  man  who 
can  dare  to  be  noble!  He  turned  to  meet  the  eyes  of  lone— earn- 
est, wistful,  fearful — he  kissed  her  fondly,  strained  her  warmly 
to  his  breast,  and  in  a  moment  more  he  had  left  the  house. 

Long  did  lone  remain  in  the  same  place,  mute  and  thoughtful 
The  maidens  came  again  and  again  to  warn  her  of  the  deepening 
noon,  and  her  engagement  to  Diomed's  banquet.  At  length  she 
woke  from  her  revery  and  prepared,  not  with  the  pride  of  beauty, 
but  listless  and  melancholy,  for  the  festival.  One  thought  alone 
reconciled  her  to  the  promised  visit:  she  should  meet  Glaucusd* 


178  TBE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  P0MPE2Z 

8lie  should  confide  to  liim  her  alaxm  and  uneaainees  for  het 
brother. 


CHAPTER  HL 

A  FASHIONABLE  PAETY  AND  A  DINNER  A  LA  MODE  IN  POMPEIL 

Meanwhile  Sallust  and  Glaucus  were  slowly  strolling  toward 
tl-e  houKe  of  Diomed.  Despite  the  habits  of  his  life,  Sallust 
\\  as  not  devoid  of  many  estimable  qualities.  He  would  hav« 
i;een  an  active  friend,  a  useful  citizen,  in  short  an  excellent  man, 
if  he  had  not  taken  it  into  his  head  to  be  a  philosopher.  Brought 
up  in  the  schools  in  which  Roman  plagiarism  worshiped  the  echo 
of  Grecian  wisdom,  he  had  imbued  himself  with  these  doctrines 
by  wliich  the  late  Epicureans  corrupted  the  simple  maxims  of 
their  gTeat  master.  He  gave  himself  altogether  up  to  pleasure, 
and  imagined  there  was  no  sage  like  a  boon  companion.  Still, 
however,  he  had  a  considerable  degree  of  learning,  wit,  and  good- 
nature; and  the  hearty  frankness  of  his  very  vices  seemed  like 
virtue  itself  beside  the  utter  corruption  of  Clodius  and  the  pros- 
trate effeminacy  of  Lepidus;  and  therefore  Glaucus  liked  him  the 
best  of  his  companions;  and  he,  in  turn,  appreciating  the  nobler 
qualities  of  the  Atheoian,  loved  him  almost  as  much  as  a  cold 
muraena,  or  a  bowl  of  the  best  Falemian. 

*'  This  is  a  vulgar  old  fellow,  this  Diomed,"  said  Sallust;  *'  but 
he  has  some  good  quahties — in  his  cellar  I" 

'*  And  some  charming  ones — in  his  daughter." 

*•  True,  Glaucus,  but  you  are  not  much  moved  by  them,  me- 
thinks.    I  fancy  Clodius  is  desirous  to  be  your  successor." 

He  is  welcome — At  the  banquet  of  Julia's  beauty,  no  guest, 
be  sure,  is  considered  a  musca."  * 

'*  You  are  severe,  but  she  has  indeed  something  of  the  Corin- 
thian about  her — they  will  be  well-matched,  after  all!  What 
good-natured  fellows  we  are,  to  associate  with  that  gambling 
good-f  or-naught  1" 

'•  Pleasme  unites  strange  varieties,"  answered  Glaucus.  "  H« 
amuses  me " 

"  And  flatters;  but  then  he  pays  himself  welll  He  powders  hi« 
praise  with  gold-dust." 

"  You  often  hint  that  he  plays  unfairly — think  you  so  really?" 

**  My  dear  Glaucus,  a  Roman  noble  has  his  dignity  to  keep  up 
— dignity  is  very  expensive — Clodius  must  cheat  like  a  scoundrel, 
in  order  to  live  like  a  gentleman."  ' 

*'  Ha  ha! — well,  of  late  I  have  renounced  the  dice.  Ah!  Sallust, 
when  I  am  wedded  to  lone.  I  trust  I  may  yet  redeem  a  youtli  of 
follies.  We  are  both  born  for  better  tilings  than  those  in  which 
we  sympathize  now— born  to  render  our  worship  in  nobler  tem- 
ples than  the  sty  of  Epicurus." 

"  Alas!"  returned  Sallust,  in  rather  a  melancholy  tone,  **  what 
do  we  know  more  than  this — life  is  short,  beyond  the  grave  aU 
is  dark?    There  is  no  wisdom  like  that  wliich  says  *  enjoy.' " 

♦  UnwelGome  and  uninvited  guests  were  called  muscas  or  flies. 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIL  179 

"B^  Bacchus  I  I  doubt  sometimes  if  we  do  enjoy  the  utmost 
of  which  life  is  capable." 

"  I  am  a  moderate  man,"  returned  Sallust,  '*and  do  not  ask 
'the  utmost.'  We  are  like  malefactors,  and  intoxicate  ourselves 
with  wine  and  myiTh,  as  we  stand  on  the  brink  of  death;  but, 
if  we  did  not  do  so,  the  abyss  would  look  very  disagreeable.  I 
own  that  I  was  inclined  to  be  gloomy  until  I  took  so  heartily  to 
drinking— that  is  a  new  life,  my  Glaucus." 

"  Yes!  but  it  brings  us  next  morning  to  a  new  death." 

*'  Why,  the  next  morning  is  unpleasant,  I  own;  but,  then,  if  it 
were  not  so,  one  would  never  be  inclined  to  read.  I  study 
betimes— because,  by  the  gods!  I  am  generally  unfit  for  anything 
else  till  noon." 

'* Fie,  Scythian!" 

*'  Pshaw!  the  fate  of  Pentheus  to  him  who  denies  Bacchus." 

*'  Well,  Sallust,  with  all  your  faults,  you  are  the  best  profligate 
I  ever  met;  and  verily,  if  I  were  in  danger  of  life,  you  are  the 
only  man  in  all  Italy  who  would  stretch  out  a  finger  to  save  me." 

"  Perhaps  1  should  not  if  it  were  in  the  middle  of  supper.  But, 
in  truth,  we  Itahans  are    earfully  selfish." 

*'  So  are  all  men  who  are  not  free,"  said  Glaucus,  with  a  sigh. 
*' Freedom  alone  makes  men  sacrifice  to  each  other." 

"Freedom,  then,  must  be  a  very  fatiguing  thing  to  an  Epicu- 
rean," answered  Sallust.     "But  here  we  are  at  om-  host's." 

As  Diomed's  villa  is  one  of  the  most  considerable  in  point  of 
size  of  any  yet  discovered  at  Pompeii,  and  is,  moreover,  built 
much  according  to  the  specific  insti-uotions  for  a  suburban  villa 
laid  dowTi  by  the  Roman  architect,  it  may  not  be  uninteresting 
briefly  to  describe  the  plan  of  the  apartments  tlirough  which  oui- 
visitors  passed. 

They  entered,  then,  by  the  small  vestibule  at  which  we  have 
before  been  presented  to  the  aged  Medon,  and  passed  at  once  into 
a  colonnade,  technically  termed  the  peristyle;  for  the  main  differ' 
ence  between  the  suburban  villa  and  the  town  mansion  consisted 
in  placing  in  the  first  the  said  colonnade  in  exactly  the  same  place 
as  that  which  in  the  town  mansion  was  occupied  by  the  atrium. 
In  the  center  of  the  peristyle  was  an  open  court,  which  contained 
the  impluvium. 

From  this  peristyle  descended  a  staircase  to  the  offices;  another 
narrow  passage  on  the  opposite  side  communicated  with  a 
garden;  various  small  apartments  surrounded  the  colonnade, 
appropriated  probably  to  country  visitors.  Another  door  to  the 
left  on  entering  communicated  with  a  smaU  triangular  portico, 
which  belonged  to  the  baths;  and  behind  was  the  wardrobe,  in 
which  were  kept  the  vests  of  the  holiday  suits  of  tlie  slaves,  and, 
perhaps,  of  the  master.  Seventeen  centuries  afterward  were 
found  those  relics  of  ancient  finery  calcined  and  crumbling; 
kept  longer,  alas!  than  their  thrifty  lord  foresaw. 

Return  we  to  the  peristyle,  and  endeavor  now  to  present  to  the 
reader  a  coup-d'oeil  ©f  the  whole  suite  of  apartments,  which  im- 
mediately stretched  before  the  steps  of  the  visitors. 

Let  th(?m  first  imagine  the  columns  of  the  poi-tico,  hung  with 
festoons  of  flowers;  th?  columns  themselves  in  the  lower  part 


180  TEE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIt 

painted  red,  and  the  walls  around  glowing  with  various  frescoes; 
then,  loooking  beyond  a  curtain,  three  parts  drawn  aside,  the 
eye  caught  the  tablinum  or  saloon  (which  was  closed  at  will  by 
glazed  doors,  now  slid  back  into  the  walls.)  On  either  side  of 
this  tabhnum,  were  small  rooms,  one  of  which  was  a  kind  of 
cabinet  of  gems;  and  these  apartments,  as  well  as  the  tablinum, 
commimicated  with  a  long  gallery,  wliich  opened  at  either  end 
upon  terraces;  and  between  the  terraces,  and  communicating 
■«dth  the  central  part  of  the  gallery,  was  a  hall,  in  which  the 
banquet  was  that  day  prepared.  All  these  apartments,  thougli 
•Iniost  on  a  level  with  the  street,  were  one  story  above  the  garden ; 
and  the  terraces  communicating  with  the  gallery  were  con- 
tinued into  corridors,  raised  above  the  pillars,  wliich  to  the  right 
and  left  skirted  the  garden  below. 

Beneath,  and  on  a  level  with  the  garden,  ran  the  apartments 
We  have  already  described  as  appropriated  to  him. 

In  the  gallery,  then,  just  mentioned,  Diomed  received  his 
guests. 

The  merchant  affected  greatly  the  man  of  letters,  and,  there- 
fore, he  also  affected  a  passion  for  everything  Greek;  he  paid 
particular  attention  to  Glaucus. 

"  You  w^ill  see,  my  friend,"  said  he,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand, 
•*  that  I  am  classical  here — a  little  Cecropian — eh?  The  hall  in 
which  we  shall  sup  is  bonow  ed  from  the  Greeks.  It  is  an  CEcus 
Cyzicene.  Noble  Sallust,  they  have  not,  I  am  told,  this  sort  of 
an  apartment  in  Rome." 

"  Oh!"  replied  Sallust,  with  a  half-smile,  *'  you  Pompeians  com- 
bine all  that  is  most  eligible  in  Greece  and  Rome;  may  you,  Di- 
omed, combine  the  viands  as  well  as  the  architecture!" 

"You  shall  see — you  shall  see,  my  Sallust,"  replied  the  mer- 
chant.    "  We  have  a  taste  at  Pompeii,  and  we  have  also  money." 

"  They  are  two  excellent  things, '  replied  Sallust,  '*  but  behold, 
the  lady  Julia!" 

The  main  difference,  as  I  have  before  remarked,  in  the  manner 
of  life  observed  among  the  Athenians  and  Romans  was,  that  with 
the  first,  the  modest  woman  rarely  or  never  took  pai-t  in  the  en- 
tertaiimients;  with  the  latter,  they  were  the  common  ornaments 
of  the  ban(|uet;  but  when  they  were  present  at  the  feast,  it  usual- 
ly terminated  at  an  early  hour. 

Magnificently  robed  in  white,  interwoven  with  pearls  and 
threads  of  gold,  the  handsome  Julia  entered  the  apartment. 

Scarcely  bad  she  received  the  salutation  of  the  two  guests  ere 
Pansa  and  his  wife,  Lepidus,  Clodius  and  the  Roman  senator  en- 
tered almost  simultaneously;  then  came  the  widow  Fulvia;  then 
the  poet  Fulvius,  like  to  the  widow  in  name  if  in  nothing  else; 
the  warrior  from  Herculaneum,  accomixinied  by  his  umbra,  next 
stalked  in;  afterward  the  less  eminent  of  the  guests.  lone  yet 
tarried. 

It  was  the  mode  among  the  courteous  ancients  to  flatter  when- 
ever it  was  in  their  power;  accordingly  it  was  a  sign  of  ill-breed- 
ing to  seat  themselves  immediately  on  entering  the  house  of  their 
host.  After  performing  the  salutation,  which  was  usually  ac- 
complished by  the  same  cordial  shake  of  the  right  hand  which 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII,  I8l 

We  ourselves  retain,  and  sometimes  by  the  y6t  more  familiar  em- 
brace, they  spent  several  minutes  in  sm-veying  the  apartment, 
and  admiring  the  bronzes,  the  pictures,  or  the  furniture  with 
which  it  was  adorned — a  mode  very  impolite  according  to  our  re- 
fined English  notions,  which  place  good  breeding  in  indifference. 
We  would  not  for  the  world  express  much  admiration  of  another 
man's  house,  for  fear  it  would  be  thought  we  had  never  seeu 
anything  so  fine  before  I 

"  A  beautiful  statue  this  of  Bacchus  I"  said  the  Roman  senator^ 

^  A  mere  trifle  1"  repUed  Diomed. 

"  What  charming  paintingsl"  said  Fulvia, 

"  Mere  trifles  I"  answered  the  o^vner. 

"  Exquisite  candelabral"  cried  the  warrior. 

"  Exquisite  I"  echoed  his  umbra. 

**  Trifles  I  trifles  I"  reiterated  the  merchant. 

Meanwhile,  Glaucus  found  himself  by  one  of  the  windows  of 
the  gallery  which  communicated  \\ith  the  terraces,  and  the  fair 
Julia  by  his  side, 

"Is  it  an  Athenian  vu-tue,  Glaucus,"  said  the  merchant's  daugh- 
ter, "  to  shun  those  whom  we  once  sought?" 

"  Fair  Julia — no!" 

"  Yet,  methinks,  it  is  one  of  the  qualities  of  Glaucus." 

"Glaucus  never  shuns  a  friend."^  replied  the  Greek,  with  some 
emphasis  on  the  last  word. 

"  May  Julia  ranMamong  the  number  of  his  friends?" 

"It  would  be  an  honor  to  the  emperor  to  find  a  friend  in  one 
so  lovely." 

"You  evade  my  question,"  returned  the  enamored  Julia, 
"  But  tell  me,  is  it  true  that  you  admii-e  the  Neapolitan  lone?" 

"Does  not  beauty  constrain  our  adnuration?" 

"  Ahl  subtle  Greek,  still  do  you  flvthe  meaning  of  my  words. 
But  say,  shall  Julia  be  indeed  your  friend?" 

"  If  she  will  so  favor  me,  blessed  be  the  gods  I  The  day  in 
which  I  am  thus  honored  shall  ever  be  marked  in  white." 

"  Yet,  even  wliile  you  speak,  your  eye  is  restless — your  color 
comes  and  goes — you  move  away  involuntarily — ^you  are  impa- 
tient to  join  lonel" 

For  that  moment  lone  had  entered,  and  Glaucus  had  indeed 
betrayed  the  emotion  noticed  by  the  jealous  beauty, 

"  Can  admiration  of  one  woman  make  me  unworthy  the  friend- 
ship of  another?  Sanction  not  so,  oh,  Julia,  the  libels  of  the 
poets  on  your  sex." 

"  Well,  you  are  right,  or  I  will  learn  to  tliink  so.  Glaucus,  yet 
one  moment.    You  are  to  wed  lone;  is  it  not  so?" 

"  If  the  Fates  permit,  such  is  my  blessed  hope." 

"  Accept  them  from  me,  in  token  of  our  new  friendship,  a 
present  for  your  bride.  Nay,  it  is  the  custom  of  friends,  you 
know,  always  to  present  to  bride  and  bridegroom  some  such 
little  marks  of  their  esteem  and  favoring  wishes." 

"  Julia,  I  cannot  refuse  any  token  of  friendship  from  one  like 
you.    I  will  accept  the  gift  as  an  omen  from  Fortune  itself." 

"  Then,  after  the  feast,  when  the  guests  retire,  you  will  descend 
with  me  to  my  apartment,  and  receive  it  from  my  hands,    Ec 


182  fBB  LAST  DA  T3  OF  POMPEH. 

member,"  said  Julia,  as  she  ^ined  the  wife  of  Pansa,  and  left 
Glaucus  to  seek  lone. 

The  widow  Fulvia  and  the  si)ouse  of  the  aedile  were  engaged 
in  grave  and  high  discussion. 

*'  Oh,  Fulvia,  I  assure  you  that  the  last  account  from  Rome 
declares  that  the  frizzling  mode  of  dressing  the  hair  is  growing 
antiquated;  they  only  now  wear  it  built  up  in  a  tower,  like  Julia's, 
or  arranged  as  a  helmet — the  Galerian  fasliion,  like  mine,  you 
Bee,  it  has  a  fine  effect,  I  think.  I  assure  you,  Vespius  (Vespius 
was  the  name  of  the  Herculaneum  hero)  admires  it  greatly." 

*'  And  nobody  wears  the  hair  like  yon  Neapolitan,  in  the  Greek 
way." 

*'  What,  parted  in  front,  with  the  knot  behind?  Oh,  no!  how 
ridiculous  it  is  I  it  reminds  one  of  the  statue  of  Diana  I  Yet  thia 
lone  is  handsome,  eh?" 

"So  the  men  say:  but  then  she  is  rich;  she  is  to  marry  the 
Athenian — ^I  wish  her  joy.  He  will  not  be  long  faithful,  I  sus- 
pect; those  forei^ers  are  very  faithless." 

"Oh,  Juliarsaid  Fulvia,  as  the  merchan t's  daughter  joined 
them;  ""have  you  seen  the  tiger  yet?" 

"Nor 

"  Why,  all  the  ladies  have  been  to  see  him.  He  is  so  hand- 
some!" 

"I  hope  we  shall  find  some  criminal  or  other  for  him  and  the 
lion,"  replied  Julia.  "  Your  husband  (turning  to  Pansa's  wife)  is 
not  so  active  as  he  should  be  in  this  matter." 

"  Why,  really,  the  laws  are  too  mild,"  replied  the  dame  of  the 
helmet.  "  There  are  so  few  offenpes  to  which  the  punishment  of 
the  arena  can  be  awarded;  and  then,  too,  the  gladiators  are 
Rowing  effeminate.  The  stoutest  bestiarii  declare  they  are  will- 
mg  enough  to  fight  a  boar  or  a  bull;  but  as  for  a  lion  or  a  tiger, 
they  think  the  game  too  much  in  earnest.** 

"  They  are  worthy  of  a  miter.**  replied  Julia,  In  disdain, 

"  Oh,  have  you  seen  the  new  house  of  Fulvius,  the  dear  poet?" 
said  Pansa's  wife. 

"No;  is  it  handsome?" 

"  Very;  such  good  taste.  But  they  say,  my  dear,  that  he  has 
such  improper  pictures.  He  won't  show  them  to  the  women; 
how  ill-bred!" 

"  Those  poets  are  always  odd,"  said  the  widow.  "  But  he  is  an 
interesting  man;  what  pretty  verses  he  writes.  We  improve 
very  much  in  poetry:  it  is  impossible  to  read  the  old  stuff  now." 

"  I  declare  I  am  of  your  opinion,"  returned  the  lady  of  the  hel- 
met. "  There  is  so  much  more  force  and  energy  in  the  modem 
BchooL" 

The  warrior  sauntered  up  to  the  ladies. 

"  It  reconciles  me  to  peace,"  said  lie,  "when  I  see  such  faces." 

"  Oh,  you  heroes  are  ever  flatterers,'  returned  Fulvia,  hasten- 
ing  to  appropriate  the  compliment  specially  to  herself. 

"By  this  chain,  wliich  I  received  from  he  Emperor's  own 
hand,'*  replied  the  warrior,  playing  with  a  short  chain  which 
hnng  aroond  the  neck  like  ^  coila^-  instead  of  descending  to  the 


THB  LAST  DA  IS  OF  POMPEIt  188 

breast,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  peaceful,  "by  this  chain, 
you  wrong  me!    I  am  a  blunt  man — a  soldier  should  be  so." 

*'  How  do  you  find  the  ladies  of  Pompeii  generaDy?'*  said 
Julia. 

"  By  Venus,  most  beautiful  I  They  favor  me  a  little,  it  is  true, 
and  that  inclines  my  eyes  to  double  their  charms." 

*'  We  love  a  warrior,"  said  the  wife  of  Pansa. 

*'  I  see  it;  by  Hercules,  it  is  even  disagreeable  to  be  too  cele- 
brated in  these  cities.  At  Herculaneum  they  climb  the  roof  of 
my  atrium  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  me  through  the  compluvium; 
the  admiration  of  one's  citizens  is  pleasant  at  first,  but  burden- 
some afterward." 

*'  True — true,  oh,  VespiusI"  cried  the  poet,  joining  the  group; 
*'  I  find  it  so  myself." 

*'  You  I"  said  the  stately  warrior,  scanning  the  small  form  of 
the  poet  with  ineffable  disdain.  "In  what  legion  have  you 
served?" 

"You  may  see  my  spoils,  my  exuviae,  in  the  forum  itself,"  re- 
turned the  poet,  with  a  significant  glance  at  the  women.  "I 
have  been  among  the  tent-companions,  the  contiibernales,  of  the 
great  Mantuan  himself." 

"I  know  no  general  from  Mantua,"  said  the  warrior,  gravely. 
"What  campaign  have  you  served?" 

"That  of  Helicon." 

"  I  never  heard  of  it." 

"  Nay,  Vespius,  he  does  but  joke,"  said  Julia,  laughing. 

"  Joke!  By  Mars,  am  I  a  man  to  be  joked?" 

"  Yes;  Mars  himseK  was  in  love  with  the  mother  of  jokes," 
said  the  poet,  a  little  alarmed.  "  Know,  then,  O  Vespius,  that  1 
am  the  poet  Fulvius.    It  is  I  who  make  warriors  immortal!" 

"The  gods  forbid!"  wliispered  Sallust  to  Julia.  "If  Vespius 
were  made  immortal,  what  a  specimen  of  tiresome  braggadocio 
would  be  transmitted  to  posterity!" 

The  soldier  looked  puzzled;  when,  to  the  infinite  relief  of 
himself  and  his  companions,  the  signal  for  the  feast  was  given. 

As  we  have  already  witnessed  at  the  house  of  Glaucus  the  or- 
dinary routine  of  aPompeian  entertainment,  the  reader  is  spared 
any  second  detail  of  the  courses,  and  the  manner  in  which  they 
were  introduced. 

Diomed,  who  was  rather  ceremonious,  had  appointed  a  nomen- 
clator,  or  appointer  of  places,  to  each  guest. 

The  reader  understands  that  the  festive  board  was  composed  of 
three  tables;  one  at  the  center,  and  one  at  each  -sving.  It  was 
only  at  the  outer  side  of  these  tables  that  the  guests  reclined;  the 
inner  space  was  left  untenanted,  for  the  greater  convenience  of 
tho  waiters  or  ministri.  The  extreme  comer  of  one  of  the  wings 
was  appropriated  to  Julia  as  the  lady  of  the  feast;  that  next  her, 
to^  Diomed.  At  one  corner  of  the  center-table  was  placed  the 
aedile;  at  the  opposite  corner,  the  Eoman  senator — these  were 
the  posts  of  honor.  The  other  guests  were  arranged,  so  that  the 
young  (gentleman  or  lady)  Bhould  sit  next  each  other,  and  thf> 
wore  advanced  in  years  be  similaxly  matched.    An  agreeabli* 


184  TBS  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMFBIt 

provision  enough,  but  one  which  mxist  often  have  offended  those 
who  wished  to  be  thought  still  young. 

The  chair  of  lone  ^vas  next  to  tlie  oouch  of  Glaucus.  Tlio 
seats  were  veneered  with  tortoise-shell,  and  covered  with  quilts 
Btuffed  with  feathers,  and  ornamented  with  costly  embroideries. 
Tlie  modern  ornaments  of  epergne  or  plateau  were  suppUed  by 
images  of  the  gods,  \^Tought  in  bronze,  ivory,  and  silver.  The 
sacred  salt-cellar  and  the  famihar  Lares  were  not  forgotten. 
Over  the  table  and  the  seats  a  rich  canopy  was  suspended  from 
the  ceiling.  At  each  corner  of  the  table  were  lofty  candelabra — 
for  though  it  was  early  noon,  the  room  was  darkened — while 
from  tripods,  placed  in  different  parts  of  the  room,  distilled  the 
odor  of  myrrh  and  frankincense;  and  upon  the  abacus,  or  side- 
board, large  vases  and  various  ornaments  of  silver  were  ranged, 
much  witli  the  same  ostentation  (but  Avith  more  than  the  same 
taste)  that  we  find  displayed  at  a  modem  feast. 

The  custom  of  grace  was  invariably  suppHed  by  that  of  liba- 
tion to  the  gods;  and  Vesta,  as  queen  of  the  household  gods, 
usually  received  first  that  graceful  homage. 

The  ceremony  being  performed,  the  slaves  showered  flowers 
upon  the  couches  and  the  floor,  and  crowned  each  guest  with 
rosy  garlands,  intricately  woven  with  ribbons,  tied  by  the  rind  of 
the  Imden-tree,  and  each  intermingled  with  the  ivy  and  the 
amethyst — supposed  preventives  against  the  effect  of  wine;  the 
wreaths  of  the  women  only  were  exempted  from  the  leaves,  for  it 
was  not  the  favshion  for  them  to  drink  ■wdne  in  public.  It  was 
then  that  president  Diomed  thought  it  advisable  to  institute  a 
basileuSf  or  director  of  the  feast — an  important  office,  sometimes 
chosen  by  lot;  sometimes,  as  now,  by  the  master  of  the  enter- 
tainment. 

Diomed  was  not  a  little  puzzled  as  to  his  election.  The  invalid 
senator  was  too  grave  and  too  infirm  for  the  proper  fulfilment 
of  his  duty;  the  eedile  Pansa  was  adequate  enough  to  the  task; 
but  then,  to  choose  the  next  in  official  rank  to  the  senator,  was 
an  affront  to  the  senator  himself.  While  deliberating  between 
the  merits  of  the  others,  he  caught  the  mirthful  glances  of  Sal- 
lust,  and  bv  a  sudden  inspiration,  named  the  jovial  epicm*e  to 
the  rank  of  director,  or  arbiter  hihendi. 

Sallust  received  the  appointment  with  becoming  humility. 

*'I  shall  be  a  merciful  king,"  said  he,  "to  those  who  drink;  to 
a  recusant,  Minos  liimself  shall  be  less  inexorable.    Beware  I " 

The  slaves  lianded  round  basins  of  perfumed  water,  by  which 
lavation  the  feast  commenced:  and  now  the  table  groaned  under 
the  i  litiatory  course. 

The  conversation,  at  first  desultory  and  scattered,  allowed  lone 
and  Glaucus  to  carry  on  those  sweet  whispers,  which  are  worth 
all  the  eloquence  in  the  world.  Juha  watched  them  with  flash- 
ing eyes. 

*•  How  soon  shall  her  place  be  mine?"  thought  she. 

But  Clodius,  who  sat  at  the  center  table,  so  as  to  observe  well 
the  countenance  of  Julia,  guessed  her  pique,  and  resolved  to 
profit  by  it.  He  addressed  lier  across  the  table  in  set  phfases  of 
gallantry;  and  as  he  was  of  high  birth  and  of  ft  ekQ'W^  fiOCaO^ 


TEE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEIL  18ft 

tihe  vain  Julia  was  not  so  much  in  love  as  to  be  insensible  to  his 
attentions. 

The  slaves,  in  the  interim,  were  constantly  kept  on  the  alert  b^ 
the  vigilant  Sallust,  who  chased  one  cup  by  another  with  a 
celerity  which  soemed  as  if  he  were  resolved  upon  exhausting 
those  capacious  cellars  which  the  reader  may  yet  see  beneath  the 
nouse  of  Diomed.  The  worthv  merchant  began  to  repeat  his 
choice,  as  amphora  after  amphora  was  pierced  and  emptied. 
The  slaves,  all  under  the  age  of  manhood  (the  youngest  oeing 
about  ten  years  old — it  was  they  who  filled  the  wine — the  eldest, 
some  five  years  older,  mingled  it  with  water),  seemed  to  share  in 
the  zeal  of  Sallust;  and  the  face  of  Diomed  began  to  glow  as  he 
watched  the  provoking  complacency  with  which  they  seconded 
the  exertions  of  the  king  of  the  feast. 

"  Pardon  me,  O  senatorl"  said  Sallust;  **  I  see  you  flinch;  your 
purple  hem  cannot  save  you — drink!" 

"By  the  gods!"  said  the  senator,  coughing,  "my  lungs  are 
already  on  fire;  you  proceed  with  so  mii'aculous  a  swiftness,  that 
Phaeton  himself  was  nothing  to  you.  I  am  infirm,  O  pleasant 
Sallust;  you  must  exonerate  me." 

"  Not  I,  by  Vestal    I  am  an  impartial  monarch — drink!" 

The  poor  senator,  compelled  by  the  laws  of  the  table,  was 
forced  to  comply.  Alas!  every  cup  was  bringing  him  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  Stygian  pool. 

"Gently!  gentlyl  my  king!"  groaned  Diomed;  "we already 
begin  to " 

"  Treason!"  interrupted  Sallust;  "  no  stem  Brutus  here!-— no 
interference  with  royalty!" 

"But  our  female  ^ests ^'* 

"  Love  a  toper!  Did  not  Ariadne  dote  upon  Bacchus?" 

The  feast  proceeded;  the  guests  grew  more  talkative  and  noisy; 
the  dessert  or  last  course  was  already  on  the  table;  and  the  slaves 
bore  round  water  with  myrrh  and  hyssop  for  the  finisliing 
lavation.  At  the  same  time,  a  small  circular  table  that  had  been 
placed  in  the  space  opposite  the  guests,  suddenly,  and  as  by 
magic,  seemed  to  open  in  the  center,  and  cast  up  a  fragrant 
shower,  sprinkling  the  table  and  the  guests;  while  as  it  ceased 
the  awning  above  them  was  drawn  aside,  and  the  guests  per- 
ceived that  a  rope  had  been  stretched  across  the  ceiling,  and  that 
one  of  those  nimble  dancers  for  which  Pompeii  was  so  celebrated, 
and  whose  descendants  add  so  charming  a  grace  to  the  festivities 
of  Astley's  or  Vauxhall,  was  now  treading  his  airy  measures  right 
over  their  heads. 

This  apparition,  removed  but  by  a  cord  from  one's  pericranium, 
and  indulging  the  most  vehement  leaps,  apparently  with  the  in- 
tention of  alighting  upon  that  cerebral  region,  would  probably  be 
regarded  with  some  terror  by  a  party  in  May  Fair;  but  our 
Pompeian  revelers  seemed  to  behold  the  spectacle  with  delighted 
curiosity,  and  applauded  in  proportion  as  the  dancer  appeared 
with  the  most  difficulty  to  miss  falling  upon  the  head  of  what- 
ever guest  he  particularly  selected  to  dance  above.  He  paid  the 
senator,  indeed,  the  peculiar  compliment,  for  literally  falling  from 
the  rope,  and  catching  it  a^ain  with  his  hand,  just  as  the  wholt 


181  THE  LAST  DAY8  OF  POMPEIt 

party  Imagined  the  skull  of  the  Roman  was  aa  much  fractured 
as  ever  that  of  the  poet  whom  the  eagle  took  for  a  tortoise.  At 
length,  to  the  great  relief  of  at  least  lone,  who  had  not  much 
accustomed  herself  to  this  entertainment,  the  dancer  suddenly 
paused  as  a  strain  of  music  w^as  heard  from  without.  He  danced 
again  still  more  wildly;  the  air  changed,  the  dancer  paused  again; 
no,  it  could  not  dissolve  the  charm  which  was  supposed  to  x>ossess 
him  I  He  represented  one  who  by  a  strange  disorder  is  compelled 
to  dance,  and  whom  only  a  certain  air  of  music  can  cure.  At 
length  the  musician  seemed  to  hit  on  the  right  tune;  the  dancer 
gave  one  leap,  swung  himself  down  from  the  rope,  ahghted  on 
the  floor  and  vauislied. 

One  art  now  yielded  to  another;  and  the  musicians  who  were 
stationed  without  on  the  terrace  struck  up  a  soft  and  mellow  air, 
to  which  were  sung  the  following  words,  made  almost  indistinct 
by  the  barrier  between,  and  the  exceediiig  lowness  of  the  min- 
strelsy: 

FESTIVE  MUSIC  SHOULD  BE  LOW. 

Hark,  through  these  flowers  our  music  sends  its  greetfaig 

To  your  loved  halls,  where  Pallas  shuns  the  day; 
"When  the  young  god  his  Cretan  nymph  was  meeting;, 

He  taught  Pan's  rustic  pipe  this  gliding  lay, 
Soft  as  the  dews  of  wine 

Shed  in  this  banquet  hour, 
The  rich  libation  of  Sound's  stream  divine, 

O  reverent  harp,  to  Aphrodite  pourl 

Wild  rings  the  trump  o'er  ranks  to  glory  marching; 

Music's  sublimer  bursts  for  war  are  meet; 
But  sweet  lips  murmuring  under  wreaths  o'er-arching^ 

Find  the  low  whispers,  like  their  own,  most  sweet. 
Steal,  my  lull'd  music,  steal 

Like  a  woman's  half-heard  tone. 
So  that  whoe'er  shall  hear,  shall  tnink  to  feel 

In  thee  the  voice  of  lips  that  love  his  own. 

At  the  end  of  that  song  Tone's  cheek  blushed  more  deepV  than 
before,  and  Glaucus  had  contrived,  under  cover  of  the  table,  to 
steal  her  liand. 

"It  is  a  pretty  song,"  said  Fulvius,  patronizingly. 

**  Ah,  if  you  would  oblige  us!"  Murmured  the  wife  of  Pansa. 

'*  Do  you  wish  Fulvius  to  sing?"  asked  the  king  of  the  feast,  who 
had  just  called  on  the  assembly  to  drink  the  health  of  the  Roman 
eenator,  a  cup  to  each  letter  of  his  name. 

'•  Can  you  ask?"  said  the  matron,  with  a  complimentary  glance 
at  the  poet. 

Sallust  snapped  his  fingers,  and  wliispering  the  slave  who 
came  to  learn  his  orders,  the  lattei  disappeared,  and  returned  in 
a  few  moments  w  ith  a  small  harp  in  one  hand  and  a  brauch  of 
myrtle  in  tlie  other. 

The  slave  approached  the  poet,  and  with  a  low  reverence  pre- 
sented to  him  the  liarp. 

**  Alas!  I  cannot  play,'*  said  the  poet. 

"Then  you  must  sing  to  the  myrtle.  It  is  a  Greek  fashion-, 
Diomed  loves  the  Greeks— I  K)ve   the  Greeks— you   love  th« 


TBE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPBIL  tm 

Greeks— we  all  love  the  Greeks— and  between  you  and  me  this 
is  not  the  only  thing  we  have  stolen  from  them.  However,  I  in- 
troduce this  custom— I,  the  king.    Sing,  subject,  singl" 

The  poet,  with  a  bashful  smile,  took  the  myrtle  in  his  handa^ 
and  after  a  short  prelude  sang  as  follows  in  a  pleasant  and  we4> 
tuned  voice: 

THE  CORONATION  OF  THE  LOVES. 

The  merry  Loves  one  holiday 
Were  all  at  gambols  madly; 
But  loves  too  long  can  seldom  play 

Without  behaving  sadly. 
They  laugh'd,  they  toy'd,  they  romp'd  abont| 
And  then  for  change  they  all  fell  out. 
Fie,  fie!  how  can  they  quarrel  so? 

My  Lesbia— ah,  for  shame,  love! 
Methinks  'tis  scarce  an  hour  ago 
When  we  did  just  the  same,  love. 

The  loves,  'tis  thought,  were  free  till  then 

They  had  no  king  or  laws,  dear; 
But  gods,  like  men,  should  subject  be. 

Say  all  the  ancient  saws,  dear. 
And  so  our  crew  resolved,  for  quiet, 
To  choose  a  king  to  curb  their  riot. 
A  kiss:  ah!  what  a  grievous  thing 

For  both,  methinks,  'twould  be,  child, 
If  I  should  take  some  prudish  king, 
And  cease  to  be  j>o  free,  childl 

Among  their  toys  a  Casque  they  found. 

It  was  the  helm  of  Ares; 
With  horrent  plumes  the  crest  was  crown'^ 

It  frighten'd  all  the  Lares. 
So  fine  a  king  was  never  known^ — 
Then  placed  the  helmet  on  the  throne. 
My  girl,  since  Valor  wins  the  world. 

They  chose  a  mighty  master; 
But  thy  sweet  flag  of  smiles  unfurl'd 
Would  win  the  world  much  fasterl 

The  Casque  soon  found  the  Loves  too  wild 

A  troop  for  him  to  school  them* 
For  warriors  know  how  one  such  child 

Has  aye  contrived  to  fool  them. 
They  plagued  him  so,  that  in  despair 
He  took  a  wife  the  plague  to  share. 

If  kings  themselves  thus  find  the  striiSB 

Of  earth,  unshared,  severe,  girl: 
Why  just  to  halve  the  ills  of  life, 
Come,  take  your  partner  here,  gid. 

Within  that  room  the  Bird  of  Love 

The  whole  affair  had  eyed  them; 
The  monarch  hail'd  the  royal  dove. 

And  placed  her  by  his  side  then; 
What  mirth  amid  the  Loves  was  seeni 
•♦Long  live,"  they  cried,  "  our  King  and Queeol*^ 


m  TBS  LAST  DATS  OF  POMFmt 

Ah!  LesTblft,  would  that  thrones  -^ere  mlM^ 

And  crowns  to  deck  tliatbrow,  lorti 
And  yet  I  know  that  heart  of  thin* 

For  me  is  throne  enow,  lovel 

The  urchins  hoped  to  tease  tho  matt 

As  they  had  teased  the  hero; 
But  when  the  Dove  In  judgment  sati^ 

Tliey  found  her  worse  than  Nerol 
Each  look  a  frown,  each  word  a  law; 
The  little  subjects  shook  with  awe. 
In  thee  I  find  the  same  deceit: 

Too  late,  alas!  a  learnerl 
For  where  a  mein  more  gently  sweetf 
And  where  a  tyrant  sterner? 

This  song,  wliicli  greatly  suited  the  gay  and  lively  fancy  of 
the  Pompeians,  was  received  with  considerable  applause,  and 
the  widow  insisted  on  cro^vning  her  namesake  with  the  very 
branch  of  myrtle  to  which  he  had  sung.  It  was  easily  twisted 
into  a  garland,  and  the  immortal  Fulvius  was  crowned  amid  the 
clapping  of  hands  and  shouts  of  To  triumphe  !  The  song  and  the 
harp  now  circulated  round  the  party,  a  new  myrtle  branch  being 
handed  about,  stopping  at  each  person  who  could  be  prevailed 
upon  to  sing. 

The  sun  began  now  to  dech'ne,  though  the  revelers,  who  had 
won  away  several  hours,  perceived  it  not  in  their  darkened 
chamber;  and  the  senator,  who  was  tired,  and  the  warrior,  who 
had  to  return  to  Herculaneum,  rising  to  depart,  gave  the  signal 
for  the  general  dispersion.  *'  Tarry  yet  a  moment,  my  friends,'* 
Baid  Diomed;  *'  if  you  go  so  soon,  you  must  at  least  take  a  share 
in  our  concluding  game." 

So  saying,  he  motioned  to  one  of  the  ministri,  and  whispering 
him,  the  slave  went  out  and  presently  returned  with  a  small 
bowl,  containing  various  tablets  carefully  sealed,  and,  apparent- 
ly, exactly  similar.  Each  guest  was  to  purchase  one  of  those 
at  the  nominal  price  of  the  low^est  piece  of  silver;  and  the  sport 
of  this  lottery  (which  was  the  favorite  diversion  of  Augustus, 
who  introduced  it)  consisted  in  the  inequality  and  sometimes  the 
incongruity  of  the  prizes,  the  nature  and  amount  of  which  were 
specified  within  the  tablets.  For  instance  the  poet,  with  a  wry 
face,  drew  one  of  his  owti  poems  (no  physician  ever  less  willing- 
ly swallow^ed  his  own  draught);  the  warrior  drew  a  case  of  bod- 
kins, which  gave  rise  to  several  novel  witticisms  relative  to  Her- 
cules and  the  distaff;  the  widow  Fulvia  obtained  a  large  drinking 
cup;  Julia,  a  gentleman's  buckle;  and  Lepidus,  a  lady's  patch- 
box.  The  most  appropriate  lot  was  drawn  by  the  gambler  Clo- 
dius,  who  redden  '  with  anger  on  being  presented  a  set  of  cogged 
dice.  A  certain  c  imp  was  thrown  upon  the  gayetv  which  these 
various  lots  created  by  an  accident  that'was  considered  ominous; 
Glaucus  drew  tho  most  valuable  of  all  the  prizes,  a  small  marble 
statue  of  Fortune,  of  Grecian  workmansliip;  on  handing  it  to 
him,  the  slave  suffered  it  to  drop,  and  it  broke  in  pieces. 

A  shiver  went  round  the  assembly,  and  each  voioe  cried  spoil* 
taneously  on  the  gods  to  avert  the  omen. 


TJSE  LAST  DA  TS  OP  FOMPEU.  »«t 

Olaucus  alone,  though  perhaps  as  superstitious  as  tlie  rest,  at* 
rected  to  be  unmoved. 

"Sweet  Neapolitan,"  whispered  he  tenderly  to  lone,  who  had 
turned  pale  as  the  broken  marble  itself,  *  ^accept  the  omen.  It 
signifies,  that  in  obtaining  thee.  Fortune  can  give  no  more — she 
breaks  her  image  when  she  blesses  me  with  thine." 

In  order  to  divert  the  impression  which  this  incident  had  occa- 
sioned in  an  assembly  which,  considering  the  civiKzation  of  the 
guests,  would  seem  miraculously  superstitious,  if  at  the  present 
day  in  a  coui}try  party  we  did  not  often  see  a  lady  grow  hypo- 
chondriacal on  leaving  a  room  last  of  thirteen,  Sallust  now  crown- 
ing his  cup  with  flowers,  gave  the  health  of  theii-  host.  This  was 
followed  by  a  simihar  compliment  to  the  Emperor;  and  then,  with 
a  parting  cup  to  Mercury  to  send  them  pleasant  slumbers,  they 
concluded  the  entertainment  by  a  last  libation,  and  broke  up  the 
party. 

Carriages  and  litters  were  little  used  in  Pompeii,  partly  owing 
to  the  extreme  narrowness  of  the  streets,  partly  to  the  convenient 
smallness  of  the  city.  Most  of  the  guests  replacing  their  sandals, 
which  they  had  put  off  in  the  banquet-room,  and  induing  their 
cloaks,  left  the  house  on  foot  attended  by  their  slaves. 

Meanwhile,  having  seen  lone  depart,  Glaucus,  turning  to  the 
staircase  which  led  down  to  the  rooms  of  Julia,  was  conducted  by 
a  slave  to  an  apartment  in  which  he  found  the  merchant's  daugh- 
ter already  seated. 

*'  Glaucus!"  said  she,  looking  down,  *'  I  see  that  you  really  love 
lone— she  is  indeed  beautiful." 

"  Juha  is  charming  enough  to  be  generous,"  replied  the  Greek. 
"Yes,  I  love  lone;  amid  all  the  youth  that  court  you,  may  you 
have  one  worshiper  as  sincere." 

"  I  pray  the  gods  to  grant  it!  See,  Glaucus,  these  pearls  are  the 
present  I  destine  to  your  bride:  may  Juno  give  her  health  to  wear 
them!" 

So  saying,  she  placed  a  case  in  his  hand,  containing  a  row  of 
pearls  of  some  size  and  price.  It  was  so  much  the  custom  for 
persons  about  to  be  married  to  receive  these  gifts,  that  Glaucus 
could  have  little  scruple  in  accepting  the  necklace,  though  the 
gallant  and  proud  Athenian  inly  resolved  to  requite  the  gift  by 
one  of  thrice  its  value.  Julia  then  stopping  short  his  thanks, 
poured  forth  some  wine  into  a  small  bowl, 

"  You  have  drunk  many  toasts  with  my  father,"  said  she  smil- 
ing— "  one  now  with  me.     Health  and  fortune  to  your  bride!" 

She  touched  the  cup  with  her  lips  and  then  presented  it  to  Glau- 
cus. The  customary  etiquette  required  that  Glaucus  should 
drain  the  whole  contents;  he  accordingly  did  so.  Julia,  unknow- 
ing the  deceit  which  Nydia  had  practiced  upon  her,  watched 
him  with  sparkling  eyes;  although  the  witch  had  told  her  that 
the  effect  might  not  be  immediate,  she  yet  sanguinely  trusted  to 
an  expeditious  operation  in  favor  of  her  charms.  She  was  disap- 
pointed when  she  found  Glaucus  coldly  replace  the  cup,  and  con- 
verse with  her  in  the  same  unmoved  but  gentle  tone  as  before. 
And  though  she  detained  him  as  long  as  she  decorously  could  do. 
no  change  took  place  in  his  manner. 

\ 


itfO  THE  LAST  DA  Y3  OF  POMPEIt 

"But  to-morrow,*'  thought  slie,  exultiagly,  recovering  her  dim 
appointment — *'  to-moiTow,  alas  for  GlaucusI" 
Alas  for  him  indeed  I 


CHAPTER  rV. 

THE  STORY  HALTS  FOR  A  MOlfENT  AT  AN  EPiaODE. 

Restless  and  anxious,  Apaecides  consumed  the  day  in  wander 
ing  through  the  most  sequestered  walks  in  the  vicinity  of  tha 
city.  The  sun  was  slowly  setting  as  he  paused  beside  a  lonely 
part  of  the  Sarnus,  ere  yet  it  wound  amid  tlie  evidences  of  lux- 
ury and  power.  Only  fclirough  openings  in  the  woods  and  vines 
were  caught  glimpses  of  the  white  and  gleaming  city,  in  which 
were  heard  in  the  distance  no  din,  no  sound,  no  "  busiest  hum  of 
men."  Amid  the  green  banks  crept  the  lizard  and  the  grass- 
hopper, and  here  and  there  in  the  brake,  a  solitary  bu'd  burst  into 
sudden  song  as  suddenly  stilled.  There  was  a  deep  calm  around, 
but  not  the  calm  of  night;  the  air  still  breathed  of  the  freshness 
and  life  of  day;  the  grass  still  moved  to  the  stir  of  the  insect 
horde;  and  on  the  opposite  bank  the  graceful  white  capella 
passed  browsing  through  the  herbage,  and  paused  at  the  wave  to 
drink. 

As  Apaecides  stood  musingly  gazing  upon  the  waters,  he  heaxd 
beside  him  the  low  bark  of  a  dog. 

*♦  Be  still,  poor  friend,"  said  a  voice  at  hand;  *'  the  stranger's 
step  harms  not  thy  master."  The  convert  recognized  the  voice, 
and,  turaing,  he  beheld  the  mysterious  man  whom  he  had  seen 
in  the  congregation  of  the  Nazarenes. 

The  old  man  was  sitting  upon  a  fragment  of  stone  covered  with 
ancient  mosses:  beside  him  were  his  staff  and  scrip;  at  his  feet 
lay  a  small  shaggy  dog,  the  companion  in  how  many  a  pilgrim- 
age perilous  and  sti-ange. 

The  face  of  the  old  man  was  as  balm  to  the  excited  spirit  of  the 
neophyte;  he  approached,  and  craving  his  blessing,  sat  down  be- 
side him. 

"Thou  art  provided  as  for  a  journey,  father,"  he  said;  "wilt 
thou  leave  us  yet?" 

*'  My  son,"  replied  the  old  man,  "the  days  in  store  for  me  on 
earth  are  few  and  scanty;  I  employ  them  as  becomes  me,  travel- 
ing from  place  to  place  comforting  those  whom  God  has  gathered 
together  in  His  name,  and  proclaiming  the  glory  of  His  Son,  as 
testified  by  His  servant." 

"  Thou  hast  looked,  they  tell,  on  the  face  of  Christ?" 

"And  the  face  revived  me  from  the  dead.  Know,  young  pros- 
elyte to  the  true  faith,  that  I  am  he  of  whom  thou  readest  in  the 
scroll  of  the  Apostle.  In  the  far  Judea,  and  in  the  city  of  Nain, 
there  dwelt  a  widow,  humble  of  spirit  and  sad  of  heart;  for  of 
all  the  ties  of  life  one  son  alone  was  sjiared  to  her.  And  she 
loved  him  with  a  melancholy  love,  for  he  was  the  likeness  of 
the  lost.  And  the  son  died.  The  reed  on  which  she  leaned  was 
broken;  the  oil  was  dried  up  in  the  widow's  cruse.  They  bore 
the  dead  upon  his  bier;  and  near  the  gate  of  the  city,  where  the 
crowds  were  gathered,  there  came  a  silence  over  the  sounds  of 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  191 

woe,  for  the  Son  of  God  was  passing  by.  The  mother,  who  fol- 
lowed the  bier,  wept;  not  noisily,  but  all  who  looked  upon  her 
saw  that  her  heart  was  crushed.  And  the  Lord  pitied  her,  and 
he  touched  the  bier  and  said,  '  I  say  unto  thee,  arise.'  And  the 
dead  man  woke  and  looked  upon  the  face  of  the  Lord.  Oh  that 
calm  and  solemn  brow,  that  unutterable  smile,  that  careworn 
and  sorrowful  face,  lighted  up  with  a  God's  benignity;  it  chased 
away  the  shadows  of  the  grave!  I  rose,  I  spoke,  I  was  living 
and  m  my  mother  s  arms;  yes,  I  am  the  dead  revivedl  Thi 
people  shouted,  the  funeral  horns  rang  forth  merrily,  there  was 
a  cry,  '  God  hath  visited  his  people!'  I  heard  them  not;  I  felt  J 
saw,  nothing  but  tlie  face  of  the  Redeemer! " 

The  old  man  paused,  deeply  moved;  and  the  youth  felt  his 
blood  creep,  and  bis  hair  stir.  He  was  in  the  presence  of  on© 
who  had  known  the  Mystery  of  Death! 

'•  Till  that  time,"  renewed  the  widow's  son,  *'  I  had  been  as 
other  men:  thoughtless,  not  abanoned;  taking  no  heed  but  of  the 
things  of  love  and  hfe:  nay.  I  had  inchned  to  the  gloomy  faith 
of  the  earthly  Sadduces.  But,  raised  from  the  dead,  from  awful 
and  desert  dreams  that  these  lips  never  dare  reveal;  recaUed 
upon  earth  to  testify  the  power  of  Heaven;  once  more  mortal, 
the  witness  of  immortality;  I  drew  a  new  being  from  the  gi-ave. 
\!  T?  ®i  •'  V  *  Jerusalem!  Him  from  whom  came  my  life,  I  be- 
held adjudged  to  the  agonized  and  parching  death!  Far  in  the 
mighty  crowd,  I  saw  the  light  rest  and  glimmer  over  the  cross, 
I  heard  the  hooting  mob,  I  cried  aloud,  I  raved,  I  threatened 
none  heeded  me;  I  was  lost  in  the  whii-1  and  the  roar  of  thous- 
ands. But  even  then,  in  my  agony  and  His  own,  methought 
the  glazing  eye  of  the  Son  of  Man  sought  me  out.  His  lip  smU- 
ed  as  when  it  conquered  death;  it  hushed  me,  and  I  became 

Si^;  f  ■^?T^^''  ^m^  ^^^^^  ^^^  S^^^^  f«^  another-what  was  the 
crave  to  Him?  The  sun  shone  aslant  the  pale  and  powerful 
features,  and  then  died  away!  Darkness  feU  over  the  earth; 
how  long  It  endured,  I  know  not.  A  loud  cry  came  through  the 
gloom;  a  sharp  and  bitter  cr7,  and  all  was  silent. 

thP  ri^t^i^^  ^^'""il  *®^^  ^^\  ^'^''T!  ^^  *^'^  ^^^1^*?  I  talked  along 
Ihtwil'  *^^,  ^^^*^  "-'^i^i  ^o  and  fro,  and  the  houses  trembled  tS 
fw,^w^  *^?  ^'""""t^  ^^^^  deserted  the  streets,  but  not  the  dead; 
i^H.c?  ^  gloom  I  saw  them  glide;  the  dim  and  ghastly  shapes 
m  the  cerements  of  the  gi-ave;  with  horror,  and  woe,  and  wam- 
J.^f  o^^^T  }^moYing  hps  and  lightless  eyes.     They  swept  by 

me  as  I  passed;  they  glared  upon  me;  I  had  been   their  brother, 
and  they  bowed  their  heads  in  recognition;  they  had  risen  to  tell 
the  living  that  the  dead, ccm  rise!" 
cal^ei^onl  ^^^  ^^^  paused,  and,  when  he  resumed,  it  was  in  a 

«Prlw  r™^^'^^^*  \  resigned  all  earthly  thought  but  that  of 
r«^if£f  •  ^  preacher  and  a  pilgrim,  I  have  traversed  the 
remotest  comers  of  the  earth,  proclaiming  His  Divinity,  and 
bringing  new  converts  into  his  fold.  I  commas  the  wind,  aid  as 
|he  world. '^  sowing,  as  the  wind  sows,  the  seeds  that  enrich 

^     'Son,  on  earth  we  sliall  meet  no  more.    Forget  not  this  hou?^ 


193  THE  LAST  DA  Y8  OF  POMPEIL 

wbai  are  the  pleasures  and  the  pomps  of  life?  As  the  lamp 
shines,  so  life  gutters  for  an  hour;  but  the  soul's  light  is  the  star 
that  bums  forever,  in  the  heart  of  illimitable  space." 

It  was  then  that  their  conversation  fell  upon  the  general  and 
sublime  doctrines  of  immortality:  it  soothed  and  elevated  the 
young  mind  of  the  convert,  which  yet  clung  to  many  of  the  damps 
and  shadows  of  that  cell  of  faith  which  he  had  so  lately  left — it 
was  the  air  of  keaven  breatliing  on  the  prisoner  released  at  last. 
There  was  a  strong  and  marked  distinction  between  the 
Christianity  of  the  old  man  and  that  of  OUnthus;  that  of  the 
first  was  more  soft,  more  gentle,  more  divine.  The  liard  heroism 
of  Olinthus  had  something  in  it  fierce  and  intolerant — it  was 
necessary  to  the  part  lie  was  destined  to  play — it  had  in  it  more 
of  the  courage  of  the  martyr  than  the  charity  of  the  saint.  It 
aroused,  it  excited,  it  nerved  rather  than  subdued  and  softened. 
But  the  whole  lieart  of  that  divine  old  man  was  bathed  in  love; 
the  smile  of  the  Deity  had  burned  away  from  it  the  leaven  of 
earthlier  and  coarser  passions,  and  left  to  the  energy  of  the  hero 
all  the  meekness  of  the  child. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  rising  at  length,  as  the  sun's  last  ray  died 
in  the  west:  "now,  in  the  cool  twilight,  I  pursue  my  way  toward 
the  imperial  Rome.  There  yet  dwell  some  holy  men,  who  like 
me  have  beheld  the  face  of  Christ;  and  them  would  I  see  before 
I  die." 

"  But  the  night  is  chill  for  thine  age,  my  father,  and  the  way 
is  long,  and  the  robber  haunts  it;  rest  thee  till  to-moiTOw. ' 

"  Kind  son,  what  is  there  in  tliis  scrip  to  tempt  the  robber? 
And  the  Night  and  the  Solitude  ! — these  make  the  ladder  round 
which  angels  cluster,  and  beneath  wliich  my  spirit  can  dream  of 
God.  Oh  !  none  can  know  what  the  pilgrim  feels  as  he  walks  on 
his  holy  course,  nursing  no  fear,  and  dreading  no  danger — for 
God  is  with  him  !  he  hears  the  winds  murmur  glad  tidings;  the 
woods  sleep  in  the  shadow  of  Almighty  wings — the  stars  are  the 
Scriptures  of  Heaven,  the  tokens  of  love,  and  the  witnesses  of 
immortahty.  Night  is  the  Pilgrim's  day."  With  these  wordi 
the  old  man  pressed  Apaecides  to  his  breast,  and  taking  up  his 
staff  and  scrip,  the  dog  bounded  cheerily  before  him,  and  with 
slow  steps  and  downcast  eyes  he  went  liis  way. 

The  convert  stood  watching  his  bended  form,  till  the  tree  shut 
the  last  glimpse  from  his  own  view;  and  then,  as  the  stars  broke 
forth,  he  woke  from  the  musings  with  a  start,  reminded  of  hia 
appointment  with  Olinthus. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  PHILTKR.— ITS  EFFECT 

When  Glaucus  arrived  at  his  own  home,  he  found  Nydia  seated 
under  the  portico  of  his  garden.  In  fact,  slie  had  sought  his 
house  in  the  mere  chance  that  lie  7night  return  at  an  early  hour; 
anxious,  fearful,  anticipative,  she  resolved  upon  seizing  the  ear^ 
liest  opportunity  of  availing  herself  of  the  love-charm,  while  at 
the  same  time  she  half  hoi)ed  the  opi)ortuuity  might  be  deferred. 

^t  was  then,  in  that  fearful  buraiug  mood,  her  heart  beating 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  198 

her  cheek  flushing,  that  Nydia  awaited  the  poisibility  of  Glaii- 
cus'  return  before  the  night.  He  crossed  the  portico  just  as  the 
first  stars  began  to  rise,  and  the  heavens  above  had  assumed  it3 
most  purple  robe. 

*'  Ho,  my  child,  wait  you  for  me  ?" 

'*  Nay,  I  have  been  tending  the  flowers,  and  did  but  linger  a 
while  to  rest  myself." 

"  It  has  been  very  warm,"  said  Glaucus,  placing  himself  also 
on  one  of  the  seats  beneath  the  colonnade. 

*'Very." 

"Wilt  thou  summon  Davus?  The  wine  I  have  drunk  heats 
me,  and  I  long  for  some  cooling  drink." 

Here  at  once,  suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  the  very  opportun- 
ity that  Nydia  awaited  presented  itself;  of  himself,  at  his  own 
free  choice,  he  afforded  to  her  that  occasion.  She  breathed 
quick — "I  will  prepare  for  you  myself,"  said  she,  "  the  summer 
draught  that  lone  loves — of  honey  and  weak  wine  cooled  in 
snow." 

*'  Thainks,"  said  the  unconscious  Glaucus.  "  If  lone  loved  it, 
enough;  it  would  be  grateful  were  it  poison." 

Nydia  frowned  and  then  smiled;  she  withdrew  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  returned  with  the  cup  containing  the  beverage.  Glau- 
cus took  it  from  her  hand.  What  would  not  Nydia  have  given 
then  for  one  hour's  prerogative  of  sight,  to  have  watched  her 
hopes  ripening  to  effect — to  have  seen  the  first  dawn  of  the  im- 
agined love — to  have  worshiped  with  more  than  Persian  adora- 
tion the  rising  of  that  sun  which  her  credulous  soul  believed  was 
to  break  upon  her  dreary  night  I  Far  different  as  she  stood  then 
and  there,  were  the  thoughts,  the  emotions  of  the  blind  girl,  from 
those  of  the  vain  Pompeian  under  a  similar  suspense.  In  the  last, 
what  poor  and  frivolous  passions  had  made  up  the  dangerous 
whole  !  What  petty  pique,  what  small  revenge,  what  expecta- 
tion of  a  paltry  triumph,  had  swelled  the  attributes  of  that  senti- 
ment she  dignified  with  the  name  of  love  !  but  in  the  wild  heart 
of  the  Thessalian  all  was  pure,  uncontrolled,  unmodified  passion; 
erring,  unwomanly,  frenzied,  but  debased  by  no  elements  of  a 
more  sordid  feeling.  Filled  with  love  as  with  life  itself,  how 
could  she  resist  the  occasion  of  winning  love  in  return  ? 

She  leaned  for  support  against  the  wall,  and  her  face,  before  so 
flushed,  was  now  white  as  snow,  and  with  her  delicate  hands 
clasped  convulsively  together,  her  lips  apart,  her  eyes  on  the 
ground,  she  waited  the  next  words  Glaucus  should  utter. 

Glaucus  had  raised  the  cup  to  his  lips,  he  had  already  drained 
about  a  fourth  of  its  contents,  when  his  eye  suddenly  glancing 
upon  the  face  of  Nydia  he  was  so  forcibly  struck  by  its  altera- 
tion, by  its  intense  and  painful,  and  strange  expression,  that  he 
paused  abmptly  and  still  holding  the  cup  near  his  lips,  ex- 
claimed— 

"Why,  Nydia  I  Nydia  I  I  say,  art  thou  ill  or  in  pain?  Nay, 
thy  face  speaks  for  thee.  What  ails  my  sweet  child  ?"  As  he 
spoke,  he  put  down  the  cup  and  rose  from  his  seat  to  approacli 
lier,  when  a  sudden  pang  shot  coldly  to  his  heart,  aud  was  lol- 
lowed  by  a  wild,  confused,  di.-^zy  sensation  at  the  brain.    Th© 


I W  THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEII 

floor  seemed  to  glidbfrom  under  liim — liis  feet  seemed  to  move 
on  air — a  mighty  and  uneart/ily  gladness  rushed  upon  his  spirit — 
he  felt  too  buoyant  for  the  earth — he  longed  for  wings,  nay,  it 
seemed  in  the  buoyancy  of  his  new  existence,  as  if  he  possessed 
them.  He  burst  invcluntarily  into  a  loud  and  thrilling  laugh. 
He  clapped  his  hands — he  bounded  aloft — he  was  as  a  Pythoness 
inspired.  Suddenly  as  it  came  this  preternatural  transport 
passed,  though  only  partially,  away.  He  now  felt  his  blood  ruBh- 
lug  loudly  and  rapidl3'  through  his  veins  ;  it  seemed  to  swell,  to 
exult,  to  leap  along,  as  a  siream  that  has  burst  its  bounds,  and 
limTies  to  the  ocean.  It  throbbed  in  his  ear  with  a  mighty  sound; 
he  felt  it  mount  to  his  brow,  he  felt  the  veins  in  the  temples 
stretch  and  swell  as  if  they  could  no  longer  contain  the  violent 
and  increasing  tide — then  a  kind  of  darkness  fell  over  his  eyes — 
darkness,  but  not  entire  ;  for  through  the  dim  shade  he  saw  the 
opposite  walls  glow  out,  and  the  figm-es  thereon  seemed,  ghost- 
like, to  creep  and  glide.  What  was  most  strange,  he  did  not  feel 
himself  ill — he  did  not  sink  or  quail  beneath  the  dread  frenzy 
that  was  gatheriag  over  him.  The  novelty  of  the  feelings  seemed 
bright  and  vivid — he  felt  as  if  a  younger  health  had  been  infused 
into  liis  frame.  He  was  gliding  on  to  madness — and  he  knew  it 
not  I 

Nydia  had  not  answered  his  first  question — she  had  not  been 
able  to  reply — his  wild  and  fearful  laugh  had  roused  her  from  her 
passionate  suspense;  she  could  not  see  his  fierce  gesture — she 
could  not  mark  liis  reeling  and  unsteady  step  as  he  paced  uncon- 
sciously to  and  fro;  but  slie  heard  the  words,  broken,  incoherent, 
insane,  that  gushed  from  his  lips.  She  became  terrified  and  ap- 
palled— she  hastened  to  him,  feeling  with  her  arms  until  she 
touched  his  knees,  and  then  falling  on  the  ground  she  embraced 
them,  weeping  with  terror  and  excitemenit. 

*'  Oh,  speak  to  mel  speak!  you  do  not  hate  me? — speak, 
speak  1" 

"  By  the  bright  goddess,  a  beautiful  land  this  Cyprusl  Hoi  how 
they  fill  us  with  wine  instead  of  blood!  now  they  open  the  veins 
of  the  Faun  yonder,  to  show  how  the  tide  within  bubbles  and 
sparkles.  Come  hither,  jolly  old  god!  thou  ridest  on  a  goat,  eh? 
— what  long  silky  hair  he  has!  He  is  worth  all  the  coursers  of 
Parthia.  But  a  word  with  thee — this  wine  of  thine  is  too  strong 
for  us  mortals.  Oh!  beautiful!  the  boughs  are  at  rest!  tlie  green 
waves  of  the  forest  have  caught  the  Zephyr  and  drowned  himi 
Not  a  breath  stirs  the  leaves — and  I  view  the  Dreams  sleeping 
with  folded  wings  upon  the  motionless  elm;  and  I  look  beyond, 
and  I  see  a  blue  stream  sparkle  in  the  silent  noon;  a  fountain — 
a  fountain  springing  aloft!  Ah!  my  fount,  thou  wilt  not  put  out 
the  rays  of  my  Grecian  sun,  though  thou  triest  ever  so  hard  with 
thy  nimble  and  silver  arms.  And  now,  what  form  steals  yonder 
through  tlie  boughs?  she  glides  like  a  moonbeam!  she  has  a  gar- 
land of  oak  leaves  on  her  lioad.  In  her  hand  is  a  vase  upturned, 
from  which  she  pours  pink  and  tiny  shells,  and  sparkUng  water. 
Oh  I  look  on  yon  face!  Man  never  before  saw  its  like.  Seel  we 
are  alone;  only  I  and  she  in  the  wide  forest.  Tliere  is  no  smile 
upon  her  lips — she  rapves,  ^ave  and  sweetly  sad.    Hal  fly,  it  ip 


THE  LAST  DATS  OF  POMPEP::  195 

k  nymph;  it  is  one  wild  Napseas.  Whoever  sees  her  becomes 
mad;  fly  I  see,  she  discovers  ine." 

"  Oh,  Glaucus,  Glaucus!  do  you  not  know  me?  Rave  not  so 
wildly,  or  thou  wilt  kill  me  with  a  word." 

A  new  change  seemed  now  to  operate  upon  the  jarring  and 
disordered  mind  of  the  unfortunate  Athenian.  He  put  his  handn, 
upon  Nydia's  silken  hair;  he  smoothed  the  locks — he  looked  \vi  t 
fully  upon  her  face,  and  then,  as  in  the  broken  chain  of  thought 
one  or  two  links  were  yet  unsevered,  it  seemed  that  her  counte- 
nance brought  its  associations  of  lone;  and  with  that  remembrance 
his  madness  became  yet  more  powerful,  and  it  was  swayed  and 
tinged  by  passion,  as  he  burst  forth : 

"  I  swear  by  Venus,  by  Diana,  and  by  Juno,  that  though  I  have 
now  the  world  on  my  shoulders,  as  my  countryman  Hercules  (ah, 
dull  Eome,  whoever  was  truly  great  was  of  Greece;  why,  you 
would  be  godless  if  it  were  not  for  us) — I  say,  as  my  countryman 
Hercules  had  before  me,  I  would  let  it  fall  into  chaos  for  one 
smile  from  lone.  Ah,  beautiful,  adored,"  he  added,  in  a  voice 
inexpressibly  fond  and  plaintive,  "thou  lovest  me  not.  Thou  art 
unkind  to  me.  The  Egyptian  hath  belied  me  to  thee;  thou  know- 
est  not  what  hours  I  have  spent  beneath  thy  casement;  thou 
knowest  not  how  I  have  outwatched  the  ^tars,  thinking  thou,  my 
sun,  wouldst  rise  at  last;  and  thou  lovest  me  not,  thou  forsakest 
me.  Oh,  do  not  leave  me  now.  I  feel  that  my  life  will  not  be 
long;  let  me  gaze  on  thee  at  least  unto  the  last.  I  am  of  the 
bright  land  of  thy  fathers;  I  have  trod  the  hights  of  Phyle;  I 
have  gatliered  the  hyacinth  and  rose  amid  the  olive-groves  of 
Ilyssus.  Thou  shouldst  not  desert  me,  for  thy  fathers  were 
brothers  to  my  own.  And  they  say  this  land  is  lovely,  and  these 
chmes  serene,  but  I  will  bear  thee  with  me — Ho!  dark  form,  why 
risest  thou  like  a  cloud  between  me  and  mine?  Death  sits  calmly 
dread  upon  thy  brow,  on  thy  lip  is  the  smile  that  slays:  thy  name 
is  Orcus,  but  on  earth  men  call  thee  Arbaces.  See,  I  know  thee; 
fly,  dim  shadow,  ihy  spells  avail  not." 

"Glaucusl  Glaucus!"  murmured  Nydia,  releasing  her  hold  and 
falhng,  beneath  the  excitement  of  her  dismay,  remorse,  and 
anguish,  insensible  on  the  floor. 

*'  Who  calls?"  he  said,  in  a  loud  ^oice.  "  lone,  it  is  she!  they 
have  borne  lier  off— we  will  save  her— where  is  my  stilus?  Ha, 
I  have  it!    I  come,  lone,  to  thy  rescue!    I  come!  I  come!" 

So  saying,  the  Athenian  with  one  bound  passed  the  portico,  he 
traversed  the  house,  and  rushed  with  swift  and  vacillating  steps, 
and  muttering  audibly  to  himself,  dov.r.  tlie  star-lit  streets.  The 
direful  potion  burned  like  fire  in  his  veins,  for  its  effect  was 
made,  perhaps,  still  more  sudden  from  the  wine  he  had  drunk 
previously.  Used  to  the  excess  of  noctiurnal  revelers,  the  citizens, 
with  smiles  and  winks,  gave  way  to  his  reehng  steps;  they  natur- 
ally imagined  him  under  the  influence  of  the  Bromian  god,  not 
vainly  worshiped  at  Pompeii;  but  they  looked  twice  upon  his 
face  started  in  a  nameless  fear,  and  the  smile  withered  from  theii 
lips.  He  passed  the  more  populous  streets;  and,  pursuing  me- 
chanically the  way  to  lone's  house,  he  traversed  a  more  deserted 


198  -TlfE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMfETT, 

quarter,  and  entered  now  tiie  lonely  grove  of  Cybele,  in  which 
Apaecides  bad  held  his  interview  with  Plinthus. 


CHAPTER  VL 

A  REUNION  OP  DIFFERENT    ACTORS — STREAMS    THAT   FLOWED    AP- 
PARENTLY APART   RUSH  INTO  ONE  GULF. 

Impatient  to  learn  whether  the  fell  drug  had  yet  been  admin- 
istered by  Julia  to  his  hated  rival,  and  with  what  effect,  Ai-bace« 
resolved,  as  the  evening  came  on,  to  seek  her  house,  and  satisfy 
J  lis  suspense.  It  was  customary,  as  I  have  before  said,  for  men 
at  that  time  to  carry  abroad  with  them  the  tablets  and  the  stilus 
attached  to  their  girdle;  and  with  the  girdle  they  were  put  off 
when  at  home.  In  fact,  under  the  appearance  of  a  literary  in- 
strument, the  Romans  carried  about  with  them  in  that  same 
stilus  a  very  sharp  and  formidable  weapon.  It  was  with  his 
stilus*  that  Cassius  stabbed  Caesar  in  the  senate-house.  Taking, 
then,  his  girdle  and  his  cloak,  Arbaces  left  his  house,  supporting 
his  steps,  which  were  still  somewhat  feeble  (though  hope  and 
vengeance  had  conspired  greatly  with  his  o^^^l  medical  science, 
which  was  profound,  to  restore  his  natural  strength),  by  his  long 
staff;  Arbaces  took  his  way  to  the  villa  of  Diomed. 

And  beautiful  is  the  moonlight  of  the  south!  In  those  climes 
tlie  night  so  quickly  glides  into  the  day  that  twihght  scarcely 
makes  a  bridge  between  them.  One  moment  of  darker  purple 
in  the  sky— of  a  thousand  rose-hues  in  the  water — of  shade  half 
victorious  over  light;  and  then  burst  forth  at  once  the  countless 
stars— the  moon  is  up — night  has  resumed  her  reign! 

Brightly  then,  and  softly  bright,  fell  the  moonbeams  over  the 
antique  grove  consecrated  to  Cybele— the  stately  trees,  whose 
dates  went  beyond  tradition,  cast  their  long  shadows  over  the 
soil,  wliile  tln-ough  the  openings  in  their  boughs  the  stars  shone, 
still  and  frequent.  The  whiteness  of  the  small  sacellum  in  the 
center  of  the  grove,  amid  the  dark  foUage,  had  in  it  sometliing 
abrupt  and  startling;  it  recalled  at  once  the  purpose  to  which 
the  wood  was  consecrated— its  holiness  and  solemnity. 

With  a  swift  and  stealthy  pace,  Calenus,  gliding  under  the 
shade  of  the  trees,  reached  the  cliapel,  and  gently  putting  back 
the  boughs  that  completely  closed  around  its  rear,  settled  himself 
in  his  concealment;  a  concealment  so  complete,  wiiat  with  the 
fane  in  front  and  the  trees  behind,  that  no  unsuspicious  passen- 

fjer  could  possibly  have  detected  him.  Again,  all  was  apparent- 
y  solitary  in  the  grove;  afar  off  you  heard  faintly  the  voices  of 
some  noisy  revelers,  or  the  music  that  played  cheerily  to  the 
groups  th.it  then,  as  now  in  those  cUmates  during  the  nights  of 
summer,  lingered  in  the  streets,  and  enjoyed,  in  the  fresh  air 
and  the  liquid  moonlight,  a  milder  day. 

From  the  hight  on  which  the  grove  was  placed,  you  saw 
througli  the  intervals  of  the  trees  the  broad  and  purple  sea,  rip- 
pling in  the  distance,  the  white  villas  of  Stabia^  in  the  curving 
shore,  and  thedimLectiarian  hills  mingling  \^ith  thedelicoussky. 

*  From  this  stilus  may  be  derived  the  stiletto  of  the  Italians. 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  197 

Presently  the  tall  figure  of  Arbaces,  on  his  way  to  the  house  of 
Dioraed,  entered  the  extreme  end  of  the  grove;  and  at  the  same 
instant  Apaecides,  also  bound  to  his  appointment  with  Olinthus, 
crossed  the  Egyptian's  path. 

"  Hem!  Apaecides,"  said  Arbaces  recognizing  the  priest  at  a 
glance;  "  when  last  we  met,  you  were  my  foe.  I  have  wished 
since  then  to  see  you,  for  I  would  have  you  still  my  pupil  and 
my  friend." 

Ap^cides  started  at  the  voice  of  the  Egyptian;  and  halting 
abruptly,  gazed  upon  him  with  a  countenance  full  of  contending, 
bitter,  and  scornful  emotions. 

"Villain  and  impostor!"'  said  he  at  length;  "  thou  hast  recov- 
ered then  from  the  jaws  of  the  grave.  But  tliink  not  again  to 
weave  around  me  thy  guilty  meshes.  Betiarius,  I  am  armed 
ftgainst  thee!" 

"Hush!"  said  Arbaces,  in  a  very  low  voice — but  his  pride, 
which  in  that  descendant  of  kings  was  great,  betrayed  the 
wound  it  received  from  the  insulting  epithets  of  the  priest  in  the 
quiver  of  his  lip  and  the  flush  of  his  tawny  brow. '  "  Hush!  more 
low!  thou  mayest  be  overheard,  and  if  other  ears  than  mine  had 
drunk  those  sounds — why " 

"  Dost  thou  threaten?— what  if  the  whole  city  had  heard  me?" 

"The  manes  of  my  ancestors  would  not  have  suffered  me  to 
forgive  thee.  But,  hold,  and  hear  me.  Thou  art  enraged  that  I 
would  have  offered  violence  to  thy  sister — Nay,  peace,  peace,  but 
one  instant,  I  pray  thee.  Thou  art  right;  it*^  was  the  frenzy  of 
passion  and  of  jealousy — I  have  repented  bitterly  of  my  madness. 
Forgive  me;  I,  who  never  implored  pardon  of  Uving  man,  be- 
seech thee  now  to  forgive  me.  Nay,  I  will  atone  the  insult— I 
ask  thy  sister  in  marriage — start  not,  consider — what  is  the  alli- 
ance of  yon  holiday  Greek  compared  to  mine?  Wealth  unbound- 
ed— birth  that  in  its  far  antiquity  leaves  your  Greek  and  Roman 
names  the  things  of  yesterday — science — but  that  thou  knowest! 
Give  me  thy  sister,  and  my  whole  life  shall  atone  a  moment's 
error." 

"  Egyptian,  where  even  I  to  consent,  my  sister  loathes  the  very 
air  thou  breathest ;  but  I  have  my  own  \\T:ongsto  forgive — I  may 
pardon  thee  that  thou  hast  made  me  a  tool  to  thy  deceits,  but 
never  that  thou  hast  seduced  me  to  become  the  abettor  of  thy 
vices  ;  a  polluted  and  a  perjui-ed  man.  Tremble  ;  even  now  I 
prepare  the  hour  in  which  thou  and  thy  false  gods  shall  be  un- 
veiled. Thy  Ipwd  and  Circean  life  shall  be  dragged  to  day  ;  thy 
mumming  oracles  disclosed  ;  the  fane  of  the  idol  Isis  shall  be  a 
by-word  and  a  scorn  ;  the  name  of  Arbaces  a  mark  for  the  hisses 
of  execration  I    Tremble  I " 

The  flush  on  the  Egyptian's  brow  was  succeeded  by  a  livid  pale- 
ness. He  looked  behind,  before,  around,  to  feel  assiu:ed  that 
none  were  by  ;  and  then  he  fixed  liis  dark  and  dilating  eye  on  the 
priest,  with  such  a  gaze  of  wrath  and  menace,  that  one,  perhaps, 
less  supported  than  Apgecides  by  the  fervent  daring  of  divine 
zeal,  could  not  have  faced  vnth  unflinching  look  that  lowering 
aspect.  As  it  was,  however,  the  young  convert  met  it  unmoved, 
and  returned  it  with  an  eye  of  proud  defiance. 


108  THE  LAST  DATS  OF  POMPEIT. 

"  Apaecides,"  said  the  Ep^yptian,  in  a  tremulous  and  inward 
tone,  "beware  1  Wliat  is  it  thou  wouldst  meditate?  Speakast 
thou  ;  reflect,  pause  before  thou  repliest ;  from  the  hasty  influ- 
ences of  A\Tath,  as  yet  divining  no  settled  puri>ose,  or  from  some 
fixed  design  ?  " 

"I  speak  from  the  inspiration  of  the  True  God,  whose  servant 
I  now  am,"  answered  the  Christian,  boldly  ;  *'  and  in  the  knowl* 
edge  that  by  His  grace  human  courage  has  already  fixed  the 
date  of  thy  hypocrisy  and  thy  demon's  worship  ;  ere  thrice  the 
sun  has  dawned,  thou  wilt  know  all  1  Dark  sorcerer,  tremble, 
and  farewell ! " 

All  the  fierce  and  lurid  passions  which  he  inherited  from  his 
nation  and  his  cfime,  at  all  times  but  ill  concealed  beneath  the 
blanduess  of  craft  and  the  coldness  of  philosophy,  were  released 
in  the  breast  of  the  Eg>T3tian.  Rapidly  one  thought  chased 
another  ;  he  saw  before  him  an  obstinate  barrier  to  even  a  law- 
ful alliance  with  lone — the  fellow-chamiDion  of  Glaucus  in  the 
struggle  which  had  baffled  his  designs — the  re  viler  of  his  name — 
the  threatened  desecrator  of  the  goddess  he  served  while  he  dis- 
believed, the  avowed  and  approacliing  revealer  of  his  own  impos- 
tures and  vices.  His  love,  his  repute,  nay,  his  very  life,  might 
be  in  danger ;  the  day  and  hour  seemed  even  to  have  been  fixed 
for  some  design  against  him.  He  knew  by  the  words  of  the  con- 
vert that  Apaecides  had  adopted  the  Christian  faith ;  he  knew 
the  indomitable  zeal  which  led  on  the  proselytes  of  that  creed. 
Such  Avas  his  enemy  ;  he  grasped  his  stilus ;  that  enemy  was  in 
his  power  !  They  were  now  before  the  chapel ;  one  hasty  glance 
once  more  he  cast  around  :  he  saw  none  near  ;  silence  and  soli- 
tude alike  tempted  him. 

"Die,  then,  in  thy  rashness!"  he  muttered;  "away,  obstacle 
to  my  rushing  fates!" 

And  just  as  the  young  Christian  had  turned  to  depart,  Arba- 
ces  raised  his  hand  high  over  the  left  shoulder  of  Apascides,  and 
I>lunged  his  weapon  twice  into  his  breast. 

Apaecides  fell  to  the  ground  pierced  to  the  heart — he  fell  mut«, 
without  even  a  groan,  at  the  vei7  base  of  the  sacred  chapel. 

Ai'baces  gazed  upon  him  for  a  moment  with  the  fierce  animal 
joy  of  conquest  over  a  foe.  But  presently  the  full  sense  of  the 
danger  to  which  he  was  exposed  flashed  upon  hun;  he  wiped  his 
weapon  carefully  in  tlje  long  grass,  and  with  the  very  garments 
of  his  victim;  drew  his  cloak  around  him,  and  was  about  to  de- 
part, when  he  siiw  coming  up  the  path,  right  before  him,  the 
figure  of  a  young  man,  whose  stops  reeled  and  vacillated  strange- 
ly as  he  advanced:  the  quiet  moonlight  streamed  full  upon  his 
face,  which  seemed,  by  the  whitening  ray,  colorless  as  marble. 
Tlie  Egyptian  recognized  the  face  and  form  of  Glaucus.  The 
unfortunate  and  benighted  Greek  was  chanting  a  disconnected 
and  mad  song,  composed  from  snatches  of  hymns  and  sacred 
odes,  all  jarringly  woven  together. 

"Hal"  thought  the  Egj-ptian,  instantaneously  divining  his 
state  and  its  terrible  cause;  "  so,  then,  the  hell-draught  works,  an<* 
destiny  hath  sent  thee  hither  to  crusli  two  of  my  foes  mt  oncet" 

Quickly,  even  ere  this  thoujjht  occurred  to  hiai.  he  had  witlk 


TBE  LAST  DAYS  JF  POMhjDII  m 

drawn  on  one  side  of  the  chapel,  and  concealed  himself  among 
the  boughs;  from  that  lurking-place  he  watched,  as  a  tiger  in  his 
lair,  the  advance  of  his  second  victim.  He  noted  the  wandering 
and  restless  fire  in  the  bright  and  beautiful  eyes  of  the  Athenian; 
the  convulsions  that  distorted  his  statue-like  features,  and 
writhed  his  hueless  lip.  He  saw  that  the  Greek  was  utterly  deprived 
of  reason.  Nevertheless,  as  Glaucus  came  up  to  the  dead  body 
of  Apsecides,  from  which  the  dark  red  stream  flowed  slowly 
over  the  grass,  so  strange  and  ghastly  a  spectacle  could  not  fail 
to  arrest  him,  benighted  and  erring  as  was  his  glimmering  sense. 
He  paused,  placed  his  hand  to  his  brow,  as  if  to  collect  himself, 
and  then  saying: 

*'  What,  ho!  Endymiou,  sleepest  thou  so  soundly?  What  has 
the  moon  said  to  thee?  Thou  makest  me  jealous;  it  is  time  to 
wake " — he  stooped  down  with  the  intention  of  lifting  up  the 
body. 

Forgetting— feeling  not — ^his  own  debility,  the  Egyptian  sprang 
from  his  hiding-place,  and,  as  the  Greek  bent,  struck  him  forci- 
bly to  the  ground,  over  the  very  body  of  the  Christian;  then, 
raising  his  powerful  voice  to  its  loudest  pitch,  he  shouted: 

*'  Ho,  citizens — ho!  help  me — run  hither — hither!  A  murder — 
a  murder  before  your  very  fane!  Help,  or  the  murderer  escapes!" 
As  he  spoke  he  placed  his  foot  on  the  breast  of  Glaucus,  an  idle 
and  superfluous  precaution;  for  the  potion  operating  with  the 
fall,  the  Greek  lay  there  motionless  and  insensible,  save  that  now 
and  then  his  lips  gave  vent  to  some  vague  and  raving  sounds. 

As  he  stood  there  awaiting  the  coming  of  those  his  voice  still 
continued  to  summon,  perhaps  some  remorse,  some  compunc- 
tious visitings — for  despite  his  crimes  he  was  human — haunted  the 
breast  of  the  Egyptian;  the  defenseless  state  of  Glaucus,  his  wan- 
dering words,  his  shattered  reason,  smote  him  even  more  than 
the  death  of  Apaecides,  and  he  said,  half  audibly,  to  himself 

"  Poor  clay,  poor  human  reason!  Wliere  is  the  sold  noivf.  1 
could  spare  thee,  O  my  rival — rival  never  more!  But  destiny 
must  be  obeyed;  my  safety  demands  thy  sacrifice."  With  that, 
fts  if  to  drown  compunction,  he  shouted  yet  more  loudly;  and 
Jrawijig  from  the  girdle  of  Glaucus  the  stilus  it  contained,  he 
steeped  it  in  the  blood  of  the  jnurdered  man,  and  laid  it  beside 
^Jie  corpse. 

And  now,  fast  and  breathless,  several  of  the  citizens  came 
thronging  to  the  place,  some  with  torches,  which  the  moon  ren- 
dered unnecessary,  but  which  flared  red  and  tremulously  against 
she  darkness  of  the  trees;  they  surrounded  the  spot. 

**  Lift  up  the  corpse,"  said  the  Egyptian,  *'and  guard  well  the 
murderer.^' 

They  raised  the  body,  and  great  was  their  horror  and  sacred 
indignation  to  discover  in  tliat  lifeless  clay  a  priest  of  the  adored 
ana  venerable  Isis;  but  still  greater,  perhaps,  was  their  surprise, 
when  they  found  the  accused  in  the  brilliant  and  admired 
Athenian. 

**  GlaucusI"  cried  the  bystander i  writh  one  accord;  "  is  it  even 
credible?" 


flOO  THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII 

*•  I  would  sooner,"  whispered  one  man  to  another,  "  believe  It 
to  be  the  Egyptian  liimseli.' 

Here  a  centurion  thrust  himself  into  the  gathering  crowd, 
with  an  air  of  authority. 

••  Howl  blood  spilt  I    Who's  the  murderer?^ 

The  bystanders  pointed  to  Glaucus. 

"  He  I  by  Mars,  he  has  rather  the  air  of  being  *he  victim!  "^^o 
accuses  him?" 

*'i,"  said  Arbaces,  drawing  himself  up  h«-ughtily;  and  th« 
jewels  which  adorned  his  dress  flashing  in  the  eyes  of  the  sol- 
dier instantly  convinced  that  worthy  warrior  of  the  witness'  re- 
spectability. 

"  Pardon  me — your  name?"  said  he. 

"Arbaces;  it  is  well  known,  methinks,  in  Pompeii.  Passing 
through  the  grove,  I  beheld  before  me  the  Greek  and  the  priest 
in  earnest  conversation.  I  was  struck  by  the  reeling  motions  of 
the  first,  his  violent  gestures,  and  the  loudness  of  his  voice:  he 
seemed  to  me  either  drunk  or  mad.  Suddenly  I  saw  him  raise 
his  stilus;  I  darted  forward — too  late  to  arrest  the  blow.  He  had 
t-wice  stabbed  his  victim,  and  was  bending  over  him,  when,  in 
my  horror  and  indignation,  I  struck  the  murderer  to  the  ground. 
He  fell  without  a  struggle,  which  makes  me  yet  more  suspect 
that  he  was  not  altogether  in  his  senses  when  the  crime  was  per- 
petrated; for,  recently  recovered  from  a  severe  illness,  my 
dIow  was  comparatively  feeble,  and  the  frame  of  Glaucus,  as  you 
see,  is  strong  and  youtliful." 

*'  His  eyes  are  open  now,  his  lips  move,"  said  the  soldier. 
**  Speak,  prisoner,  what  sayest  thou  to  the  charge?" 

"  The  charge — ha — hal  Why,  it  was  merrily  done;  when  the 
old  hag  set  her  serpent  at  me,  and  Hecate  stood  by  laughing 
from  ear  to  ear,  what  could  I  do?  But  I  am  ill,  I  faint;  the  ser- 
pent's fiery  tongue  hath  bitten  me.  Bear  rae  to  bed,  and  send 
for  yoiu"  physician;  old  ^sculapius  himself  wiU  attend  me,  if 
you  let  him  know  that  I  am  Greek.  Oh,  mercy,  mercy— I  bum! 
marrow  and  brain,  I  burn  I" 

And,  with  a  thrilling  and  fierce  groan,  the  Athenian  fell  back 
in  the  arms  of  the  bystanders. 

"  He  raves,"  said  the  officer,  compassionately;  *'and  in  his  de- 
lirium he  has  struck  the  priest.  Hath  any  one  present  seen  him 
to-day?" 

•*I,"  said  one  of  the  spectators,  ''beheld  him  in  the  morning. 
He  passed  my  shop  and  accosted  me.  He  seemed  well  and  sane 
as  the  stoutest  of  us." 

'*  And  I  saw  him  half  an  hour  ago,"  said  another,  **passmg  up 
the  streets,  muttering  to  himself  with  strange  gestures,  and 
just  as  the  Egyptian  has  described." 

'*A  corroboration  of  the  witnessl  it  must  be  too  true.  He 
must  at  all  events  to  the  prastor;  a  pity,  so  young  and  bo  rich  ! 
But  the  crime  is  dreadful:  a  priest  of  Isis,  in  his  very  robes,  too, 
and  at  the  base  itself  of  our  most  ancient  chapel  1" 

At  these  words  the  crowd  were  reminded  more  forcibly,  than 
in  then*  excitement  and  curiosity  they  had  yet  been,  of  the  hein- 
Ousness  of  the  sacrilege.    They  shuddered  in  pious  horror. 


TBE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIL  ^ 

**  No  wonder  the  earth  has  quaked,"  said  oue,  "when  it  held 
Buch  a  monster  I" 

"Away  with  him  to  prison,  away  I"  cried  they  all. 

And  one  solitary  voice  was  heard  shrilly  and  joyously  abova 
the  rest — 

Ho,  ho!  for  the  merry,  merry  sliowl 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  young  woman  whose  conversation  with 
liedon  has  been  repeated. 

"  True,  true,  it  chances  in  season  for  the  games  I"  cried  several; 
and  at  that  all  pity  for  the  accused  seemed  vanished.  His  youth, 
his  beauty,  but  fitted  him  better  for  the  purpose  of  the  arena. 

"  Bring  hither  some  planks,  or  if  at  hkna,  a  litter  to  bear  the 
dead,"  said  Arbaces;  "a  priest  of  Isis  ought  scarcely  to  be  car- 
ried to  his  temple  by  A-ulgar  hands,  like  a  butchered  gladiator." 

At  this  the  bystanders  reverently  laid  the  corpse  of  Apaecides 
on  the  ground,  with  the  face  upward;  and  some  of  them  went  in 
search  of  some  contrivance  to  bear  the  body,  untouched  by  th« 
hands  of  the  profane. 

It  was  just  at  that  time  that  the  crowd  gave  way  to  right  and 
left  as  a  sturdy  form  forced  itself  through,  and  Olinthus  the  Chris- 
tian stood  immediately  confronting  the  Egyptian.  But  his  eyes, 
at  first,  only  rested  with  inexpressible  grief  and  horror  on  that 
gory  side  and  upturned  face,  on  which  the  agony  of  violent  death 
yet  lingered. 

"  Murdered!"  he  said.  "  Is  it  thy  zeal  that  has  brought  thee  to 
this?  Have  they  detected  thy  noble  purpose,  and  by  thy  death 
prevented  their  own  shame?" 

He  turned  liis  head  abruptly,  and  his  eyes  fell  full  on  the 
solemn  features  of  the  Egyptian. 

As  he  looked,  you  might  see  in  his  face,  and  even  the  slight 
shiver  of  his  frame,  the  repugnance  and  aversion  which  the 
Christian  felt  for  one  whom  he  knew  to  be  so  dangerous  and  so 
criminal.  It  was  indeed  the  gaze  of  the  bird  upon  the  basilisk—' 
so  silent  was  it  and  so  prolonged.  But  shaking  off  the  sudden 
chill  that  had  crept  over  him,  Olinthus  extended  liis  right  arm 
toward  Arbaces,  and  said,  in  a  deep,  loud  voice: 

"  Murder  has  been  done  upon  this  coi*pse!  Where  is  the  mur- 
derer? Stand  forth,  Egyptian!  For,  as  the  Lord  liveth,  I  beUeve 
thou  art  the  man!" 

An  anxious  and  perturbed  change  might  for  one  moment  be  de- 
tected on  the  dusky  features  of  Arbaces;  but  it  gave  way  to  the 
frowning  expression  of  indignation  and  scorn,  as,  awed  and  ar- 
rested by  the  suddenness  and  vehemence  of  the  charge,  the  v=;pef> 
tators  pressed  nearer  and  nearer  upon  the  two  more  prominent 
actors. 

'*  I  know,"  said  Arbaces,  proudly,  "  who  is  my  accuser,  and  I 
guess  wherefore  he  thus  arraigns  me.  Men  and  citizens,  know 
tliis  man  for  the  most  bitter  of  the  Nazarenes,  if  that  or  Chris- 
tians be  their  proi)er  name!  What  marvel  that  in  his  malignity 
he  dares  accuse  even  an  Egyptian  of  the  murder  of  the  priest  <xf 
Egypt!" 

**I  know  him!  I  know  the  dc^I"  shouted  several  voices.    **I* 


202  THE  LAST  DAYS  01  POMPEII, 

is  Olinthus  the  Christian — or  rather  the  Atheist — ^he  denies  the 
godsl" 

'*  Peace,  brethren,"  said  Olinthus,  with  dignity,  "and  hear  mel 
Tliis  murdered  priest  of  Isis  before  bis  death  embraced  the 
Christian  faith — he  revealed  to  me  the  dark  sins,  the  sorceries  o:^ 
yon  Egyptian — the  mummeries  and  delusions  of  the  fane  of  Isis. 
He  was  about  to  declare  them  pubhcly.  He,  a  stranger,  unof- 
fending, without  enemies  I  who  should  shed  his  blood  but  one  of 
those  who  feared  his  witness?  Who  might  fear  that  testimony 
the  most? — Arbaces,  the  EgjT)tianI" 

**  You  hear  himl"  said  Arbaces;  "  you  hear  him?  he  blasphemes! 
You  ask  him  if  he  believes  in  Isis?" 

"  Do  I  believe  in  an  evil  demon?"  returned  Olinthus,  boldly, 

A  groan  and  shudder  passed  through  the  assembly.  Nothing 
daunted,  for  prepared  at  every  time  for  peril,  and  in  the  present 
excitement  losing  all  prudence,  the  Christian  continued: 

**  Back,  idolatorsl  this  clay  is  not  for  your  vain  and  polluting 
rites — it  is  to  us — ^to  the  followers  of  Christ,  that  the  last  offices 
due  to  a  Christian  belong.  I  claim  this  dust  in  the  name  of  the 
great  Creator  who  has  recalled  the  spmt!" 

With  so  solemn  and  commanding  a  voice  and  aspect  the  Chris- 
tian spoke  these  words,  that  even  the  crowd  forbore  to  utter 
aloud  the  execration  of  fear  and  hatred  which  in  their  hearts 
they  conceived.  And  never,  perhaps,  since  Lucifer  and  the 
Archangel  contended  for  the  body  of  the  mighty  Lawgiver,  was 
there  a  more  striking  subject  for  the  painter's  genius  than  that 
scene  exhibited.  The  dark  trees — the  stately  fane — the  moon  full 
on  the  corpse  of  the  deceased — the  torches  tossing  wildly  to  and 
fro  in  the  rear — the  various  faces  of  the  motley  audience — the  in- 
sensible form  of  the  Athenian,  supported,  in  the  distance;  and  in 
the  foreground,  and  above  all,  the  forms  of  Arbaces  and  the 
Christian;  the  first  drawn  to  its  full  hight,  far  taller  than  the 
herd  around  it;  his  arms  folded,  his  brows  knit,  his  eyes  fixed, 
his  lip  slightly  curled  in  defiance  and  disdain.  The  last  bearing, 
on  a  brow  worn  and  furrowed,  the  majesty  of  an  equal  command 
— the  features  stern,  yet  frank — the  aspect  bold,  yet  open — the 
quiet  dignity  of  the  whole  form  impressed  with  an  ineffable 
earnestness,  hushed,  as  it  were,  in  a  solemn  sympathy  with  the 
awe  he  himself  had  created.  His  left  hand  pointed  to  the  corpse 
— his  right  hand  raised  to  heaven. 

The  centurion  pressed  forward  again. 

"  In  the  first  place,  hast  thou,  Olintlms,  or  whatever  be  thy 
name,  any  proof  of  the  charge  thou  hast  made  against  Arbaces, 
beyond  tliy  vague  suspicions?" 

Olinthus  remained  silent— the  Egyptian  laughed  contempt- 
uously. 

*♦  Dost  thou  claim  the  body  of  a  priest  of  Isis  as  one  of  the  Naz- 
arene  or  Christian  sect?" 

"I  do." 

"  Swear  then  hj  yon  fane,  yon  statute  of  Cybele,  by  yon  mos^ 
ancient  sacellum  m  Pompeii,  that  the  dead  man  embraced  your 
faithl" 


THE  LAST  BAYS  OF  POMPEH.  203 

*'  Vain  man  1 1  disown  your  idols  I  I  abhor  your  temples!  How 
can  I  swear  by  Cybele  then?'' 

"  Away,  away  \\dth  the  Atheist  I  away  I  the  earth  will  swallow 
us,  suffer  we  these  blasphemers  in  a  sacred  grove— away  with  him 
to  death!" 

'*  To  the  beasts!"  added  a  female  voice  in  the  center  of  the 
crowd;  "  tve  shall  have  one  a-piece  now  for  the  lion  and  tigerr 

"  If ,  O  ¥azarene,  thou  disbelie  vest  in  Cybele,  which  of  our  gods 
dost  thou  own?"  resumed  the  soldier,  unmoved  by  cries  around. 

''  None!" 

*'  HarJf  to  him!  hark!'  cried  the  crowd. 

*'  O  vain  and  blind!"  continued  the  Christian,  raising  his  voice; 
"  can  you  believe  in  images  of  wood  and  stone?  Do  you  imagine 
that  they  have  eyes  to  see,  or  ears  to  hear,  or  hands  to  help  ye? 
Is  yon  mute  thing  carved  by  man's  art  a  goddess! — hath  it  made 
mankind?— alas!  by  mankind  was  it  made.  Lo!  convince  your- 
self of  its  nothingness — of  your  folly." 

And  as  he  spoke,  he  strode  across  to  the  fane,  and  ere  any  of 
the  by-standers  were  aware  of  his  purpose  he,  in  his  compassion 
or  his  zeal,  struck  the  statue  of  wood  from  its  pedestal. 

*'  See!"  cried  he,  "  your  goddess  cannot  avenge  herself.  Is 
this  a  thing  to  worship?" 

Further  words  were  denied  to  him ;  so  gross  and  daring  a  sacri- 
lege, of  one,  too,  of  the  most  sacred  of  their  places  of  worship, 
filled  even  the  most  lukewarm  with  rage  and  horror.  With  one 
accord  the  crowd  ruslied  upon  him,  seized,  and  but  for  the  inter- 
ference of  the  centurion,  they  would  have  torn  him  to  pieces. 

"  Peace!'  said  the  soldier,  authoritatively;  "refer we  this  inso- 
lent blasphemer  to  the  proper  tribunal;  time  is  already  wasted. 
Bear  we  both  the  culprits  to  the  magistrate;  place  the  body  of 
the  priest  on  the  litter,  carry  it  to  his  own  home." 

At  this  moment  a  priest  of  Isis  stepped  forward.  "I  claim 
these  remains,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  priesthood."  _ 

"  The  flamen  be  obeyed,"  said  the  centurion.  "  How  is  the 
murderer?" 

"  Insensible  or  asleep." 

"  Were  his  crimes  less,  I  could  pity  him.     On!'* 

Arbaces,  as  he  turned,  met  the  eye  of  that  priest  of  Isis.  It 
,was  Calenus;  and  something  there  was  in  that  glance,  so  signifi- 
cant and  sinister,  that  the  Egyptian  muttered  to  himself 

"  Could  he  have  vsdtnessed  the  deed?" 

A  girl  darted  from  the  crowd,  and  gazed  hard  on  the  face  of 
Olinthus.  "  S2/  Jupiter,  a  stout  knave!  I  say  y  we  shall  have  a 
man  for  the  tiger  naw ;  one  for  each  beast." 

"  Ha  !"  shouted  the  mob;  "a  man  for  the  lion,  and  another  for 
the  tiger  1    What  luck  I    lo  Paean  1" 


204  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

IN  WHICH  THE  READER  LEARNS  THE  CONDITION  OP  GLAUCUS.— • 
FRIENDSHIP  TESTED. — ENMITY  SOFTENED. — LOVE  THE  SAME  ;  BB* 
CAUSE  THE  ONE  LOVING  IS    BLIND. 

The  night  was  somewhat  advanced,  and  the  gay  lounging- 
places  of  the  Pompeians  were  still  crowded.  You  might  observe  in 
the  countenances  of  the  various  idlers  a  more  earnest  expression 
than  usual.  They  talked  in  large  knots  and  groups,  as  if  they 
sought  by  numbers  to  divide  the  half-painful,  half-pleasurable 
anxiety  which  belonged  to  the  subject  on  wliich  they  conversed 
— it  was  a  subject  of  life  and  death. 

A  young  man  passed  briskly  by  the  graceful  portico  of  the 
Temple  of  Fortune,  so  briskly  indeed,  that  he  came  with  no 
slight  force  full  against  the  rotund  and  comely  form  of  that  re- 
spectable citizen,  Diomed,  who  was  retiring  homeward  to  liis 
suburban  villa. 

"  Holloa  !"  groaned  the  merchant,  recovering  with  some  diffi- 
culty his  equilibrium;  **have  you  no  eyes?  or  do  you  tliink  I 
have  no  feeling?  By  Jupiter,  you  have  weU-nigh  driven  out  the 
divine  particle;  such  another  shock,  and  my  soul  will  be  in 
Hades  I'^ 

"  Ah,  Diomed  !  is  it  you?  forgive  my  inadvertence.  I  was  ab- 
sorbed in  thinking  of  the  reverses  of  life.  Our  poor  friend,  Glau- 
cus,  eh!  who  could  have  guessed  it?" 

"Well,  but  tell  me,  Clodius,  is  he  really  to  be  tried  by  the 
senate  ?" 

"  Yes;  they  say  the  crime  is  of  so  extraordinary  a  nature,  tliat 
the  senate  itself  must  adjudge  it;  and  so  the  lictors  are  to  induct 
him  formally."' 

"  He  has  been  accused  publicly,  then  ?" 

*'  To  be  sure;  wliere  have  you  been,  not  to  hear  that?" 

"  Why,  I  have  only  just  returned  from  NeapoUs,  whither  I 
went  on  buf^iness  tlie  very  morning  after  his  crime;  so  shocking, 
and  at  my  house  the  same  night  that  it  hap]jened  !" 

"  There  is  no  dou]>t  of  his  guilt,"  said  Clodius,  shrugging  his 
shoulders;  "  and  as  these  crimes  take  precedence  of  all  little  un- 
dignified peccadilloes,  they  will  hasten  to  finish  the  sentence  pre- 
vious to  the  games.'' 

"  The  games  !  Good  gods  !"  replied  Diomed,  with  a  slight  shud- 
der; "  can  they  adjudge  him  to  the  beasts  ? — so  young,  so  rich  !" 

"True;  but,  then,  he  is  a  Greek.  Had  he  been  a  Roman,  it 
would  have  been  a  thousand  pities.  These  foreigners  can  be 
borne  with  in  their  prosperity;  but  in  adversity  we  must  not  for- 
get that  thev  are  in  reality  slaves.  However,  we  of  the  upper 
classes  are  always  tender-liearted;  and  he  would  certainly  get  off 
tolerably  well,  if  he  were  left  to  us;  for,  between  ourselves,  what 
is  a  paltry  priest  of  Isis  ! — what  Isis  herself?  But  the  common 
people  are  suj)erstitious;  tliey  clamor  for  the  blood  of  the  sacri- 
ligeous  one.    It  is  dangerous  not  to  give  way  to  public  opinion." 

"  And  the  blasphemer — the  Christian,  or  Nazarene,  or  what* 
ever  else  he  be  called?" 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIL  205 

"  Oh,  poor  dog  I  if  he  will  sacrifice  to  Cybele,  or  Isis,  he  will  be 
pardoned — if  not,  the  tiger  has  him.  At  least,  so  I  suppose;  but 
the  trial  will  decide.  We  talk  while  the  urn's  still  empty.  And 
the  Greek  may  yet  escape  the  deadly  thcta  of  his  own  alphatet. 
But  enough  of  this  gloomy  subject.    How  is  the  fair  Julia?" 

"Well,  I  fancy." 

**  Commend  me  to  her.  But  hark  I  the  door  yonder  creaks  on 
its  hinges;  it  is  the  house  of  the  prastor.  Who  comes  forth?  By 
Pollux!  it  is  the  Egyptian  I  What  can  he  want  with  oui-  official 
friend?" 

"Some  conference  touching  the  murder,  doubtless,"  replied 
Diomed;  "but  what  was  supposed  to  be  the  inducement  to  the 
crime?    Glaucus  was  to  have  married  the  priest's  sister." 

"  Yes;  some  say  Apaecides  refused  the  alliance.  It  might  have 
been  a  sudden  quarrel.  Glaucus  was  evidently  drunk — nay,  so 
much  so  as  to  have  been  quite  insensible  when  taken  up,  and  I 
hear  is  still  delirious — whether  with  wine,  terror,  remorse,  the 
Furies,  or  the  Bacchanals,  I  cannot  say." 

"Poor  fellow! — he  has  good  counsel?" 

"The  best — Caius  Pollio,  an  eloquent  fellow  enough.  Pollio 
has  been  hiring  all  the  poor  gentlemen  and  well-born  spend- 
thrifts of  Pompeii  to  dress  shabbily  and  sneak  about,  swearing 
their  friendship  to  Glaucus  (who  would  not  have  spoken  to  them 
to  be  made  Emi^eror!  I  will  do  him  justice,  he  was  a  gentleman 
in  his  choice  of  acquaintance),  and  trying  to  melt  the  stony 
citizens  into  pity.  But  it  ^vill  not  do;  Isis  is  mightily  popular 
just  at  this  moment." 

"  And,  by-the-by,  I  have  some  merchandise  at  Alexandria. 
Yes,  Isis  ought  to  be  protected." 

"True;  so*farewell,  old  gentleman:  we  shall  meet  soon;  if  not, 
we  must  have  a  friendly  bet  at  the  Amphitheater.  AU  my  cal- 
culations are  confounded  by  this  cursed  misfortune  of  GlaucusI 
He  had  bet  on  Lydon  the  gladiator;  I  must  make  up  my  tables 
elsewhere.     ValeP^ 

Leaving  the  less  active  Diomed  to  regain  his  villa,  Clodius 
strode  on,  humming  a  Greek  air,  and  perfuming  the  night  with 
tlie  odors  that  streamed  from  his  snowy  garments  and  flowing 
locks. 

"  If,"  thought  he,  "  Glaucus  feed  the  lion,  Julia  will  no  longer 
Jiave  a  person  to  love  her  better  than  me;  she  will  certainly  dote 
on  me;  and  so,  I  suppose,  I  must  marry.  By  the  gods!  the 
twelve  lines  begin  to  fail — men  look  suspiciously  at  my  hand 
when  it  rattles  the  dice.  That  infernal  Sallust  insinuates  cheat- 
ing; and  if  he  discovered  that  the  ivory  is  cogged,  why,  farewell 
to  the  merry  supper  and  the  perfumed"^ billet— Clodius  is  undone! 
Better  maiTy,  then,  while  I  may,  renounce  gaming,  and  push 
my  fortune  (or  rather  the  gentle  JuKa's)  at  the  imperial  court." 

Thus  muttering  the  schemes  of  his  ambition,  if  by  that  high 
name  the  projects  of  Clodius  may  be  called,  the  gamester  found 
himseK  suddenly  accosted;  he  turned  and  beheld  the  dark  brow 
of  Arbaces. 

)tion;   and  inform 
me,  ' 


"Hail,  noble  Clodius!  pardon  my  interrupt 
3, 1  pray  you,  which  is  the  house  of  Sallust?" 


305  TEE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEH. 

*<  It  is  but  a  few  yards  hence,  wise  Arbaces.  But  does  SalluBt 
entertain  tonight?" 

♦'I  know  not,"  answered  the  Egyptian;  **nor  ami,  perhaps, 
one  of  those  whom  he  would  seek  as  a  boon  companion.  But 
thou  knowest  that  his  house  holds  the  person  of  Glaucus,  the 
murderer." 

•*AyI  he,  good-hearted  epicure,  believes  in  the  Greek's  inno- 
cencel  You  remind  me  that  he  has  become  his  surety;  and, 
ikerefor^,  till  the  trial,  is  responsible  for  his  appearance.*  Well, 
Sallust's  house  is  better  than  a  prison,  especially  that  wretched 
hole  in  the  forum.     But  for  what  can  you  seek  Glaucus? ' 

*'  Why,  noble  Clodius,  if  we  could  save  him  from  execution, 
it  would  be  well.  The  condemnation  of  the  rich  is  a  blow  upon 
society  itself.  I  should  like  to  confer  with  liim— for  I  hear  he 
has  recovered  his  senses — and  ascertain  the  motives  of  his  crime; 
they  may  be  so  extenuating  as  to  plead  in  his  defense." 

"You  are  benevolent,  Arbaces." 

"Benevolence  is  the  duty  of  one  who  aspires  to  wisdom,"  re- 
plied the  Egyptian,  modestly.  "Which  way  lies  Sallust's  man- 
sion?" 

"  I  will  show  you,"  said  Clodius,  "  if  you  will  suffer  me  to  ac- 
company you  a  few  steps.  But,  pray,  wliat  has  become  of  the 
poor  girl  who  was  to  have  wed  the  Athenian— the  sister  of  the 
murdered  priest?" 

"  Alas!  well-nigh  insane.  Sometimes  she  utters  imprecations 
on  the  murderer— then  suddenly  stops  short— then  cries,  '  But 
2chy  curse?  Oh,  my  brother!  Glaucus  was  not  thy  murderer— 
never  will  I  believe  it!'  Then  she  begins  again,  and  again  stops 
short,  and  mutters  awfully  to  herself,  '  Yet  if  it  were,  indeed, 
he?'" 

"  Unfortunate  lone!" 

' '  But  it  is  well  for  lier  that  those  solemn  cares  to  the  dead  which 
religion  enjoins  have  Mtherto  greatly  absorbed  her  attention  from 
Glaucus  and  herself;  and,  in  the  dimness  of  her  senses,  she 
scarcely  seems  aware  that  Glaucus  is  apprehended  and  on  the  eve 
of  trial.  When  the  fimeral  rites  due  to  Apaecidee  are  performed, 
her  apprehensions  will  return;  and  then  I  fear  me  much  that  her 
friends  will  be  revolted  by  seeing  her  run  to  succor  and  aid  the 
murderer  of  her  brotlier." 

*'  Such  scandal  should  be  prevented." 

"  I  trust  I  hare  taken  precautions  to  that  effect.  I  am  her  law- 
ful guardian,  and  have  just  succeeded  in  obtaining  ])ermi86ion  to 
escort  her,  after  the  funeral  of  Apa^cidos,  to  my  own  liouse;  there, 
please  the  gods  !  she  will  be  secure." 

"  You  have  done  well,  sage  Arbaces.  And  now,  yonder  is  the 
house  of  Sallust.  The  gods  keej)  you  !  Yet,  hark  you,  Arbaces — 
wliy  so  gloomy  and  unsocial?  ]\Ien  say  yf)u  can  he  gay — why  not 
let  me  initiate  you  into  the  pleasures  of  Pompeii  ? — I  flatter  my- 
self no  one  knows  them  better." 

*'  I  thank  you,   noble  Olodius;  under  your  ausploes  I  might 

*  If  a  criminal  could  obtain  security  (called  vades\  in  capital  offeni** 
he  was  not  compelled  to  lie  in  prison  till  after  sentence, 


THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII.  907 

▼enture,  I  think,  to  wear  the  philyra:  but,  at  my  age,  I  should  be 
an  awkward  pupil." 

*'  Oh,  never  fear;  I  have  made  converts  of  fellows  of  seventy. 
The  rich,  too,  are  never  old." 

"  You  flatter  me.  At  some  future  time  I  will  remind  you  of 
your  promise." 

"You  may  command  Marcus  Clodius  at  all  times  : — and  so, 
vale!'' 

"  Now,"  said  the  Egyptian,  soliloquizing,  "  I  am  not  wantonly 
a  man  of  blood;  I  would  willingly  save  this  Greek,  if,  by  con- 
fessing the  crime,  he  will  lose  himself  forever  to  lone,  and  for- 
ever free  me  from  the  chance  of  discovery;  and  I  can  save  him 
by  persuading  Julia  to  own  the  philter,  which  will  be  held  his 
excuse.  But  if  he  do  not  confess  the  crime,  why,  Julia  must  be 
shamed  from  the  confession,  and  he  must  die  I — die,  lest  he  prove 
my  rival  with  the  living — die,  that  he  may  be  my  proxy  with  the 
dead.  Will  he  confess  ? — can  he  not  be  persuaded  that  in  his 
dehrium  he  struck  the  blow  ?  To  me  it  would  give  far  greater 
safety  than  even  death.  Hem  1  we  must  hazard  the  experi- 
ment." 

Sweeping  along  the  narrow  street,  Arbaces  approached  the 
house  of  Sallust,  when  he  beheld  a  dark  form  wrapped  in  a  cloak, 
and  stretched  at  length  across  the  threshold  of  the  door. 

So  still  lay  the  figure,  and  so  dim  was  its  outline,  that  any 
other  than  Arbaces  might  have  felt  a  superstitious  fear,  lest  he 
beheld  one  of  those  grim  lemurcs,  who,  above  all  other  spots, 
haunted  the  threshold  of  the  homes  they  formerly  possessed. 

But  not  for  Arbaces  were  such  dreams. 

"Risel"  said  he,  touching  the  figure  with  his  foot;  *'  thou  ob- 
stinictest  the  way  I 

"Ha!  who  art  thou?"  cried  the  form,  in  a  sharp  tone;  and  as 
she  raised  herself  from  the  ground,  the  star-light  fell  full  on  the 
pale  face  and  fixed  but  sightless  eyes  of  Nydia  the  Thessalian. 
'*  Who  art  thou?   I  know  the  burden  of  thy  voice." 

"  Blind  girl!  what  doest  thou  here  at  this  late  hour?  Fie!  is 
tills  seeming  thy  sex  or  years?    Home,  girl," 

"  I  know  thee,"  said  Nydia,  in  a  low  voice,  "  thou  art  Arbaces, 
the  Egyptian."  Then,  as  if  inspired  by  some  sudden  impulse, 
she  flung  herself  at  his  feet,  and  clasping  his  knees,  exclaimed,  in 
a  wild  and  passionate  tone,  "Oh,  dread  and  potent  man!  save 
him — save  him!  He  is  not  guilty — it  is  II  He  lies  within,  ill — 
dying,  and  I — I  am  the  hateful  cause!  And  they  will  not  admit 
me  to  him;  they  spurn  the  blind  girl  from  the  hall.  Oh,  heal  himi 
thou  knowest  some  herb— some  spell — some  counter-charm,  for 
it  is  a  potion  that  hath  wrought  this  frenzy!" 

"  Hush,  child !  I  know  all!  Thou  forgettest  that  I  accompanied 
Julia  to  the  saga's  home.  Doubtless  her  hand  administered  the 
draught;  but  her  reputation  demands  thy  silence.  Reproach  not 
thyself;  what  must  be,  must:  meanwhile,  I  seek  the  criminal; 
he  may  yet  be  saved.     Away!" 

Thus  saying,  Arbaces  extricated  himself  from  the  clasp  of  the 
Thessalian,  and  knocked  loudly  at  the  door, 

Xn  a  few  moments  the  heavy  bars  were  heard  suddenly  to  yield. 


aOtS  THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII. 

and  the  porter,  half  opening  the  door,  demanded  who  was  ther^i 

*'Arbaces — important  business  to  Sallust,  relative  to  Glaucus. 
I  come  from  the  praetor." 

The  porter,  half  yawning,  half  groaning,  admitted  the  tall  fora* 
of  the  Egyptian.  Nydia  sprang  forward.  *'  How  is  he?"  she  cried. 
"  tell  me^tell  me  I" 

•♦Hoi  mad  girl  I  is  it  thou  still?  For  shame!  Why,  they  say 
he  is  sensible." 

*'  The  gods  be  praised  I  And  you  will  not  admit  me?  Alil  I  be- 
seech thee " 

"Admit  thee!  no.  A  pretty  salute  I  should  prepare  for  these 
shoulders,  were  I  to  admit  such  things  as  thou!    Go  home!" 

The  door  closed,  and  Nydia,  with  a  deep  sigh,  laid  herself  down 
once  more  on  the  cold  stones;  and,  wrapping  her  cloak  round  her 
face,  resumed  her  weary  vigil. 

Meanwhile,  Arbaces  had  already  gained  the  triclinium,  where 
Ballust,  with  his  favorite  freedman,  sat  late  at  supper. 

*'  What!  Arbaces!  and  at  this  hour!    Accept  this  cup." 

**  Nay,  gentle  Sallust;  it  is  on  business,  not  pleasure,  that  I 
venture  to  disturb  thee.  How  doth  thy  charge? — they  say  in  the 
town  that  he  has  recovered  sense." 

"  Alas!  and  tinily,"  replied  the  good-natured  but  thoughtless 
Sallust,  wiping  the  tear  from  his  eyes;  "  but  so  shattered  are  his 
nerves  and  frame,  that  I  scarcely  recognize  the  brilliant  and  gay 
carouser  I  was  wont  to  know.  Yet,  strange  to  say;  he  cannot  ac- 
count for  the  sudden  frenzy  that  seized  him — he  retains  but  a 
dim  consciousness  of  what  liath  passed;  and,  despite  thy  witness, 
wise  Egyptian,  solemnly  upholds  his  innocence  of  the  death  of 
ApsBcides." 

**  Sallust,"  said  Arbaces,  gravely,  "  there  is  much  in  thy  friend's 
case  that  merits  a  peculiar  indulgence;  and  could  we  learn  from 
his  lips  the  confession  and  the  cause  of  his  crime,  much  might 
yet  be  hoped  from  the  mercy  of  the  Senate;  for  the  Senate,  thou 
knowestjhath  the  power  either  to  mitigate  or  to  sharpen  the  law. 
Therefore  it  is  that  I  have  conferred  with  the  highest  authority 
of  the  city,  and  obtained  his  permission  to  hold  a  private  confer- 
ence this  night  with  the  Athenian.  To-morrow,  thou  knowest, 
the  trial  comes  on." 

"Well,"  said  Sallust,  "thou  M-ill  be  worthy  of  thy  Eastern 
name  and  fame  if  thou  canst  learn  aught  from  him;  but  thou 
mayst  try.  Poor  Glaucus! — and  he  had  such  an  elegant  appetite! 
He  eats  nothing  now!" 

The  benevolent  epicure  was  moved  sensibly  at  this  thought. 
He  sighed,  and  ordered  his  slaves  to  refill  his  cup. 

"  Night  wanes,"  said  the  Egyptian;  *'  suffer  me  to  see  thy  ward 
now." 

Sallust  nodded  assent,  and  led  the  wav  to  a  small  chamber, 
guarded  without  by  two  dozing  slaves.  The  door  opened;  at  the 
request  of  Arbaces  Sallust  withdrew — the  Egyptian  was  alone 
with  Glaucus. 

One  of  those  tall  and  graceful  candelabra  common  to  that  day, 
Bupjxjrting  a  single  lamp,  burned  beside  the  narrow  bed.  Its 
mys  fell  palely  over  the  race  of  the  Athenian,  and  Arbaces  waa 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEtt  209 

tnoved  to  see  how  sensibly  that  countenance  had  changed.  The 
rich  color  was  gone,  the  cheek  was  sunk,  the  lips  were  convulsed 
and  pallid;  fierce  had  been  the  struggle  between  reason  and  mad- 
ness, life  and  death.  The  youth,  the  strength  of  Glaucus  had 
conquered;  but  the  freshness  of  blood  and  soul — the  life  of  life, 
its  glory  and  its  zest,  were  gone  forever. 

The  Egyptian  seated  himself  quietly  beside  the  bed;  Glaucus 
still  lay  mute  and  unconscious  or  his  presence.  At  length,  after 
a  considerable  pause,  Arbaces  thus  spoke: 

' '  Glaucus,  we  have  been  enemies.  I  come  to  thee  alone,  and 
in  the  dead  of  night — thy  friend,  perhaps  thy  savior." 

As  the  steed  starts  from  the  path  of  the  tiger,  Glaucus  sprang 
up  breathless — alarmed,  panting  at  the  abnipt  voice,  the  sudden 
apparition  of  his  foe.  Their  eyes  jaet,  and  neither,  for  some  mo- 
ments, had  power  to  withdraw  his  gaze.  The  flush  went  and 
came  over  the  face  of  the  Athenian,  and  the  bronze  cheek  of  the 
Egyptian  grew  a  shade  more  pale.  At  length,  with  an  inward 
groan,  Glaucus  turned  away,  drew  his  hand  across  his  brow, 
sunk  back,  and  muttered: 

"  Am  I  still  dreaming?" 

"  No,  Glaucus,  thou  art  awake.  By  this  right  hand  and  my 
father's  head,  thou  seestonewho  may  save  thy  life.  Hark!  I 
know  what  thou  hast  done,  but  I  know  also  its  excuse,  of  which 
thou  thyself  art  ignorant.  Thou  hast  committed  murder,  it  is 
true — a  sacrilegious  murder;  frown  not,  start  not,  these  eyes  saw 
it.  But  I  can  save  thee — I  can  prove  how  thou  weii;  bereaved  of 
sense,  and  made  not  a  free-thinking  and  free-acting  man.  But 
in  order  to  save  thee,  thou  must  confess  thy  crime.  Sign  but 
this  paper,  acknowledging  thy  hand  in  the  death  of  Apaecides, 
and  thou  shalt  avoid  the  fatal  urn." 

"  What  words  are  these?  Murder  and  Apaecides!  Did  I  not 
see  him  stretched  on  the  ground  bleeding  and  a  corpse?  and 
wouldst  thou  persuade  me  that  I  did  the  deed?  Man,  thou  liestl 
Away!" 

"Be  not  rash — Glaucus,  be  not  hasty;  the  deed  is  proved. 
Come,  come,  thou  mayst  well  be  excused  for  not  recalling  the 
act  of  thy  delirium,  and  which  thy  sober  sense  would  have 
shunned  even  to  contemplate.  But  let  me  try  to  refresh  thy  ex- 
hausted and  weary  memory.  Thou  knowest  thou  wert  walking 
with  the  priest,  disputing  about  his  sister;  thou  knowest  he  was 
intolerant,  and  half  a  Nazarene,  and  he  sought  to  convert  thee, 
and  ye  had  hot  words;  and  he  calumniated  Ihy  mode  of  life,  and 
swore  he  would  not  marry  lone  to  thee — and  then,  in  thy  wrath 
and  thy  frenzy,  thou  didst  strike  the  sudden  blow.  Come,  come: 
you  can  recollect  this!  read  this  papyrus,  it  runs  to  that  effect — 
sign  it,  and  thou  art  saved." 

'*  Barbarian,  give  me  the  written  lie,  that  may  tear  it!  I  the 
murderer  of  lone's  brother!  I  confess  to  have  injured  one  hair 
of  the  head  of  him  she  loved!  Let  me  rather  perish  a  thousand 
times!" 

"  Beware!"  said  Arbaces,  in  a  low  and  hissing  tone;  "  there  is 
but  one  choice — thy  confession  and  thy  signature,  or  the  amphi- 
theater and  the  lion's  mawl" 


$10  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEH. 

As  the  Egyptian  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  sufferer,  be  hailed  with 
joy  the  signs  of  evident  emotion  that  seized  the  latter  at  these 
words.  A  slight  shudder  passed  over  the  Athenian's  frame — his 
lip  fell — an  expression  of  sudden  fear  and  wonder  betrayed  itself 
in  his  brow  and  eve. 

"  Great  gods,"  ne  taid,  in  a  low  voice,  "what  reverse  is  this? 
It  seems  but  a  little  day  since  life  laughed  out  from  amid  roses 
— lone  mine — youth,  health,  love,  lavishing  on  me  their  treas- 
ures; and  now— pain,  madness,  shame,  death!  And  for  what? 
what  have  I  done?  O,  I  am  mad  still!" 

**Sign,  and  be  saved!"  said  the  soft,  sweet  voice  of  the  Egyp- 
tian. 

"Tempter,  never!"  cried  Giaucus,  in  the  reaction  of  rage 
"Thou  kno west  me  not;  thou  ^no west  not  the  haughty  soul  of 
an  Athenian!  The  sudden  face  of  death  might  appal  me  for  a 
moment,  but  the  fear  is  over.  Dishonor  appals  forever!  Who 
will  debase  his  name  to  save  his  life?  who  exchange  clear  thoughts 
for  sullen  days?  who  will  belie  himself  to  shame,  and  stand 
blackened  in  the  dyes  of  glory  and  of  love?  If  to  earn  a  few 
years  of  polluted  life  there  be  so  base  a  coward,  dream  not.  dull 
barbarian  of  E^ypt,  to  find  him  in  one  who  has  trod  the  same 
sod  as  Harmodius,  and  breathed  the  same  air  as  Socrates.  Go! 
leave  me  to  live  without  self-reproach — or  to  perish  without 
fear!"* 

"  Bethink  thee  well!  the  lion's  fangs,  the  hoots  of  the  brutal 
mob;  the  vulgar  gaze  on  thy  dying  agony  and  mutilated  limbs; 
thy  name  degraded;  thy  corpse  unburied;  the  shame  thou 
wouldst  avoid  clinging  to  thee  for  aye  and  ever!" 

"Thou  ravesti  thou  art  the  madman!  shame  is  not  in  the  loss 
of  other  men's  esteem — it  is  in  the  loss  of  our  own.  Wilt  thou 
go? — my  eyes  loathe  the  sight  of  thee!  hating  ever,  I  despise  thee 
now!'' 

"I  go,'*  said  Arbaces,  stung  and  exasperated,  but  not  without 
some  pitying  admiration  of  his  victim — "I  go;  we  meet  twice 
again — once  at  the  Trial,  once  at  the  Death!    Farewell!" 

The  Egyptian  rose  slowly,  gathered  his  robes  about  him,  and 
left  the  chamber.  He  sought  Sallust  for  a  moment,  whose  eyes 
began  to  reel  with  the  vigils  of  the  cup:  "  He  is  still  unconscious, 
or  still  obstinate;  there  is  no  hope  for  him." 

*' Say  not  so,"  replied  Sallust,  who  felt  but  little  resentment 
against  the  Athenian's  accuser,  for  he  possessed  no  great  austerity 
of  virtue,  and  was  rather  moved  by  nis  friend's  reverses  than 
persuaded  of  his  innocence — "  say  not  so,  my  Egyptian!  so  good 
a  drinker  shall  be  saved  if  possible.  Bacchus  against  Isis!" 
We  shall  see,"  said  the  Egyptian. 

Subsequently  the  bolts  were  again  withdrawn — the  door  un- 
closed; Arbaces  was  in  the  open  street;  and  poor  Nydia  once  more 
started  from  her  loug  watch. 

"  Wilt  thou  save  liim?"'  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands. 

"  Child,  follow  me  home;  I  would  si)eak  to  thee — it  is  for  his 
Bake  I  ask  it." 

"  And  thou  wilt  save  him?" 

No  answer  came  forth  to  the  thirsting  ear  of  the  blind  girif 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII'.  211 

Arbaces  had  already  proceeded  up  the  street;  she  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  then  followed  liis  steps  in  silence. 

"I  must  secure  this  girl,"  he  said,  musingly,  "lest  she  give 
evidence  of  the-  philter;  as  to  the  vain  Julia,  she  will  not  betray 
herself." 


CHAPTER  Vni. 

A    CLASSIC    FUNERAL. 

While  Arbaces  had  been  thus  employed,  Sorrow  and  Death 
were  in  the  house  of  lone.  It  was  tlie  night  preceding  the  morn 
in  which  the  solemn  funeral  rites  were  to  be  decreed  to  the  re- 
mains of  the  murdered  Apsecides.  The  corpse  had  been  removed 
from  the  temple  of  Isis  to  the  nearest  surviving  relative,  and 
lone  had  heard,  in  the  same  breath,  the  death  of  her  brother  and 
the  accusation  against  her  betrothed.  That  first  violent  anguish 
which  blunts  the  sense  to  all  but  itself,  and  the  forbearing  si- 
lence of  her  slaves,  had  prevented  her  learning  minutely  the 
circumstances  attendant  on  the  fate  of  her  lover.  His  illness, 
his  frenzy,  and  his  approaching  trial,  were  unknown  to  her.  She 
learned  only  the  accusation  against  him,  and  indignantly  re- 
jected it;  nay,  on  hearing  that  Arbaces  was  the  accuser,  she 
required  no  "^  more  to  induce  her  firmly  to  believe  that  the 
Egyptian  himself  was  the  crinmial.  But  the  vast  and  absorbing 
importance  attached  by  the  ancients  to  every  ceremonial  con- 
nected with  the  death  of  a  relation,  had,  as  yet,  confined  her 
woe  and  her  convictions  to  the  chamber  of  the  deceased.  Alas  I 
it  was  not  for  her  to  perform  that  tender  and  touching  office, 
which  obliged  the  nearest  relative  to  endeavor  to  catch  the  last 
breath,  the  parling  soul  of  the  beloved  one;  but  it  was  hers  to 
close  the  straining  eyes,  the  distorted  lips;  to  watch  by  the  con- 
secrated clay,  as,  fresh  bathed  and  anointed,  it  lay  in  the  festive 
robes  upon  the  ivory  bed;  to  strew  the  couch  with  leaves  and 
flowers,  and  to  renew  the  solemn  cypress-branch  at  the  thresh- 
old of  the  door?  And  in  these  sad  offices,  in  lamentations  and  in 
prayer,  lone  forgot  herself.  It  was  among  the  lovehest  customs 
of  the  ancients  to  bury  the  young  at  morning  twihght;  for  as 
they  strove  to  give  the  softest  interpretation  to  death,  so  they 
poetically  imagined  that  Aurora,  who  loved  the  young,  had 
stolen  them  to  her  embrace;  and  though  in  the  instance  of  the 
murdered  priest  the  fable  could  not  appropriately  cheat  the 
fancy,  the  general  custom  was  still  preserved. 

The  stars  were  fading  one  by  one  from  the  gray  heavens,  and 
night  slowly  receding  before  the  approach  of  morn,  when  a  dark 
group  stood  before  lone's  door.  High  and  slender  torches,  made 
paler  by  the  unmellowed  da^vn,  cast  their  fight  over  various 
countenances,  hushed  for  the  moment  in  one  solemn  and  intent 
expression.  And  now  there  arose  a  slow  and  dismal  music, 
which  accorded  sadly  with  the  rite,  and  floated  far  along  the 
desolate  and  breathless  streets:  while  a  chorus  of  female  voices 
(the  prseficae  so  often  cited  by  the  Roman  poets),  accompanying 
the  Tibicen  and  the  Mysian  flute,  woke  the  following  strain: 


212  THE  LAST  DA  78  OF  P03IPEIT. 

THE  FUNERAL  DIRGE. 

0*er  the  sad  threshold,  where  the  cypress  bongh 

Supplants  the  rose  that  should  adorn  thy  hom«^ 
On  the  last  pilgrimage  on  earth  that  now 

Awaits  thee,  wanderer  to  Cocytus,  come  I 
Darkly  we  woo,  and  weeping  we  invite — 

Death  is  thy  host — his  banquet  asks  thy  sonl; 
Thy  garlands  hang  within  the  House  of  Night, 

And  the  black  stream  alone  shall  fill  thy  bold. 

No  more  for  thee  the  laughter  and  the  song, 

The  jocund  night — the  glory  of  the  day  1 
The  Argive  daughters  at  their  labors  long: 

The  hell-bird  swooping  on  its  Titan  prey — 
The  false  ^Eolides  upheaving  slow, 

O'er  the  eternal  hill,  the  eternal  stone; 
The  crowned  Lydian,  in  his  parching  woe, 

And  green  Callirrhoe's  monster-headed  son — 

These  shall  thou  see,  dim  shadow'd  through  the  dark. 
Which  makes  the  sky  of  Plato's  dreary  shore; 

Lo  !  where  thou  stand'st,  pale-gazing  on  the  bark. 
That  waits  our  rite  to  bear  thee  trembling  o'er  1 

Come,  then  !  no  more  delay  !— the  phantom  pines 
Amid  the  unburied  for  its  latest  home; 

O'er  the  gray  sky  the  torch  impatient  shines- 
Come,  mourner,  forth  ! — the  lost  one  bids  thee  come  I 

As  the  hymn  died  away,  the  group  parted  in  twain;  and, 
placed  upon  a  couch  spread  with  a  purple  pall,  the  corpse  of 
Apaecides  was  carried  forth,  with  the  feet  foremost.  Tlie  desig- 
nator, or  marshal  of  the  somber  ceremonial,  accompanied  by  h^ 
torch-bearers,  clad  in  black,  gave  the  signal,  and  the  procession 
moved  dreadly  on. 

First  went  tlie  musicians,  playing  a  slow  march — the  solem- 
nity of  the  lower  instruments  broken  by  many  a  louder  and 
wilder  burst  of  the  funeral  trumpet:  next  followed  the  hired 
mourners,  clianting  their  dirges  to  the  dead;  and  the  female 
voices  were  mingled  with  those  of  boys,  whose  tender  years  made 
still  more  striking  the  contrast  of  life  and  death — the  fresh  leaf 
and  the  withered  one.  But  the  players,  the  buffoons,  the  arch- 
imimus  (whose  duty  it  was  to  personate  the  dead) — these,  the 
customary  attendants  at  ordinary  funerals,  were  banished  from 
a  funeral  attended  with  so  many  terrible  associations. 

The  priests  of  Isis  came  next  in  their  snowy  garments,  bare- 
footed, and  supporting  sheaves  of  corn;  while  before  the  corpse 
were  carried  the  images  of  the  deceased  and  his  many  Athenian 
forefathers.  And  behind  tlie  bier  followed,  amid  her  women, 
the  sole  surviving  relative  of  the  dead — her  head  bare,  her  locks 
dishevelled,  her  face  paler  than  marble,  but  composed  and  still, 
save  ever  and  anon,  as  some  tender  tliought,  awakened  by  the 
music,  flashed  upon  the  dark  lethargy  of  woe,  she  covered  that 
countenance  with  her  hands,  and  sobbed  unseen;  for  hers  was 
not  the  noisy  sorrow,  the  shrill  lament,  the  ungoveriied  gesture, 
which  characterized  those  who  honored  less  faithfully.  In*  that 
age,  as  in  all,  the  channels  of  deep  grief  flowed  hushed  and  stiU. 

Ajid  so  the  procession  swept  on,  till  it  had  traversed  the  streets. 


TH^  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII  m 

passed  the  city  gate,  and  gained  the  Place  of  Tombs  without  the 
wall,  which  the  traveler  yet  beholds. 

Raised  in  the  form  of  an  altar — of  unpolished  pine,  amid  whose 
interstices  were  placed  preparations  of  combustible  matter — 
stood  the  funeral  pyre;  and  around  it  drooped  the  dark  and 
gloomy  cypresses  so  consecrated  by  song  to  the  tomb. 

As  soon  as  the  bier  was  placed  upon  the  pile,  the  attendants 
parting  on  either  side,  lone  passed  up  to  the  couch,  and  stood  be- 
fore the  unconscious  clay  for  some  moments  motionless  and 
silent.  The  features  of  tlie  dead  had  been  composed  from  the 
tirst  agonized  expression  of  violent  death.  Hushed  forever  the 
teiTor  and  the  doubt,  the  contest  of  passion,  the  awe  of  religion, 
the  struggle  of  the  past  and  present,  the  hope  and  the  horror  of 
the  future! — of  all  that  racked  and  desolated  the  breast  of  that 
young  aspirant  to  the  Holy  of  Life,  what  trace  was  visible  in  the 
awful  serenity  of  that  impenetrable  brow  and  unbreathing  lip? 
The  sister  gazed,  and  not  a  sound  was  heard  amid  the  crowd; 
there  was  something  terrible,  yet  softening,  also,  in  the  silence; 
and  when  it  broke,  it  broke  sudden  and  abrupt — it  broke  with  a 
loud  and  passionate  cry — the  vent  of  long- smothered  despair. 

*' My  brother!  my  brother!"  cried  the  poor  orphan,  falling  on 
the  couch;  "thou  whom  the  worm  on  thy  path  feared  not — what 
enemy  couldst  thou  provoke?  Oh,  is  it  in  truth  come  to  this? 
Awake!  awake!  awake!  We  grew  together!  Are  we  thus  torn 
asunder!    Thou  art  not  dead — thou  sleepest.    Awake!  awake!" 

The  sound  of  her  piercing  voice  aroused  the  sympathy  of  the 
mourners,  and  they  broke  into  loud  and  rude  lament.  This 
startled,  this  recalled  lone;  she  looked  up  hastily  and  confusedly, 
as  if  for  the  fii-st  time  sensible  of  the  presence  of  those  around. 

*'  Ahr  she  murmured  with  a  shiver,  ''we  are  not  then  alone!" 

With  that,  after  a  brief  pause,  she  rose,  and  her  pale  and  beau- 
tiful countenance  was  again  composed  and  rigid.  With  fond 
and  trembUng  hands,  she  unclosed  the  Uds  of  the  deceased;  but 
when  the  dull,  glazed  eye,  no  longer  beaming  with  love  and  life, 
met  hers,  she  shrieked  aloud,  as  if  she  had  seen  a  specter.  Once 
more  recovering  herself,  she  kissed  again  and  again  the  lids,  the 
lips,  the  brow;  and  with  mechanic  and  unconscious  hand  re- 
ceived from  the  high-priest  of  her  brother's  temple  the  funeral 
torch. 

The  sudden  burst  of  music,  the  sudden  song  of  the  mournerS; 
announced  the  birth  of  the  sanctifying  flame. 

HYMN  TO  THE  WIND. 

On  thy  couch  of  cloud  reclined. 
Wake,  O  soft  and  sacred  Wind! 
Soft  and  sacred  will  we  name  thee, 
Whosoe'er  the  sire  that  claim  thee- 
Whether  old  Auster's  dusky  child, 
Or  the  loud  son  of  Eurus  wild; 

Or  his  who  o'er  the  darkling  deeps, 
From  the  bleak  North,  in  tempest  swecpe» 
Still  Shalt  thou  seem  as  dear  to  us 
As  flowery-crowned  Zephyrus, 


iU  THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEn. 

When,  through  twilight's  starry  dew, 
Trembling,  he  hastes  his  nymph  to  woo. 

Lol  our  silver  censers  swinging, 
Ferfumes  e'er  the  path  are  flinging— 
Ne'er  o'er  Tempe's  breathless  valleys, 
Ne'er  o'er  Cypria's  cedarn  alleys, 
Or  the  Rose-isle's  moon-lit  sea. 
Floated  sweets  more  worthy  thee. 
Lol  around  our  vases  sending 
Myrrh  and  nard  with  cassia  blending; 
Paving  air  and  odors  meet, 
For  thy  silver-sandal' d  feet! 

August  and  everlasting  air! 

The  source  of  all  that  breathe  and  be, 
From  the  mute  clay  before  thee  bear 

The  seeds  it  took  from  theel 
Aspire,  bright  Flame!  aspire! 

Wild,  wind!— awake!  awake! 
Thine  own,  O  solemn  Fire! 

O  Air,  thine  own  retake! 

It  comes!  it  comes!    Lo!  it  sweeps. 

The  Wind  we  invoke  the  while; 
And  crackles,  and  darts,  and  leaps 

The  light  on  the  holy  pile! 
It  rises;  its  wings  interweave 
With  the  flames— how  they  howl  and  heare* 
Toss'd,  whirl'd  to  and  fro, 
How  the  flame-serpents  glowl 

Rushing  higher  and  higher, 

On — on,  fearful  Fire. 

Thy  giant  limbs  twined 

With  the  arms  of  the  Wind. 
Lol  the  elements  meet  on  the  throne 
Of  death — to  reclaim  their  own. 

Swing,  swing  the  censer  round — 
Tune  the  strings  to  a  softer  sound; 
From  the  chains  of  thy  fearful  toil, 
From  the  clasp  of  thy  mortal  coil, 
From  the  prison  wliere  clay  confined  thee, 
The  hands  of  the  flame  unbind  theel 
O  Soul;  thou  art  free— all  free! 

As  the  winds  in  their  ceaseless  chase, 
When  they  rush  o'er  their  airy  sea, 
Thou  mayst  speed  through  the  realms  of  spaofl^ 
No  fetter  is  forged  for  thee! 
Rejoice!  o'er  the  sluggard  tide 
Of  the  Styx  thy  bark  can  glide. 
And  thy  steps  evermore  shall  rove 
Through  the  glades  of  the  happy  grove; 
Wh"re  far  from  the  loath'd  Cocytus, 
The  loved  and  the  lost  invite  us. 
Thou  art  s  ave  to  *he.  earth  no  more. 

O  soul,  tliou  art  freed!— and  we? 
Ah!  wlien  sliall  our  toil  be  o'er? 
Ah!  whi'u  shall  we  rest  with  thee? 

And  now  high  and  far  into  the  dawning  skies  broke  the  fnk 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  215 

grant  fire;  it  flashed  luminously  across  the  gloomy  cypresses — it 
shot  above  the  massive  walls  of  the  neighboring  city;  and  the 
early  fishermen  started  to  behold  the  blaze  reddening  on  the 
waves  of  the  creeping  sea. 

But  lone  sat  down  apart  and  alone,  and,  leaning  her  face  upon 
her  hands,  saw  not  the  flame  nor  heard  the  lamentation  of  the 
music;  she  felt  only  one  sense  of  loneliness — she  had  not  yet  ar- 
rived to  that  hallowing  sense  of  comfort,  when  we  know  that 
we  are  not  alone — that  the  dead  are  with  us! 

The  breeze  rapidly  aided  the  effect  of  the  combustibles  placed 
within  the  pile.  By  degrees  the  flame  wavered,  lowered,  dimmed, 
and  slowly,  by  fits  and  unequal  starts,  died  away — emblem  of 
life  itself;  where,  just  before,  all  was  restlessness  and  flame,  now 
lay  the  dull  and  smoldering  ashes. 

The  last  sparks  were  extingiiished  by  the  attendants — the  em- 
bers  were  collected.  Steeped  in  the  rarest  wine  and  the  costliest 
odors,  the  remains  were  placed  in  a  silver  urn,  which  was  sol- 
emnly stored  in  one  of  the  neighboring  sepulchers  beside  the  road ; 
and  they  placed  within  it  the  phial  full  of  tears,  and  the  small 
coin  which  poetry  still  consecrated  to  the  grim  boatman.  And 
the  sepulcher  was  covered  with  flowers  and  chaplets,  and  incense 
kindled  on  the  altar,  and  the  tomb  hung  round  with  many 
lamps. 

But  the  next  day,  when  the  priest  returned  with  fresh  offerings 
to  the  tomb,  he  found  that  to  the  relics  of  heathen  superstition 
some  unknown  hands  had  added  a  green  palm-branch.  He  suf- 
fered it  to  remain,  unknowing  that  it  was  the  sepulchral  emblem 
of  Christianity. 

When  the  above  ceremonies  were  over,  one  of  the  Praeficse 
three  times  sprinkled  the  mourners  from  the  purifying  branch 
of  lam*el,  uttering  the  last  word,  **  llicet  I" — Depart  1 — and  the  rite 
was  done. 

But  first  they  paused  to  utter — weepingly  and  many  times — the 
affecting  farewell,  "  Salve  EternumP'  And  as  lone  yet  lingered, 
they  woke  the  parting  strain. 

SALVE  ETERNUM. 

Farewell!  O  soul  departed: 

Farewell!  O  sacred  urn  I 
Bereaved  and  broken-hearted, 

To  earth  the  mourners  tWhil 
To  the  dim  and  dreary  shore, 
Thou  art  gone  our  steps  before! 
But  thither  the  swift  Hours  lead  usi 
And  thou  dost  but  a  while  precede  usI 

Salve— salve! 
Loved  urn,  and  thou  solemn  cell, 
Mute  ashes— farewell,  farewell! 

Salve — salve! 

Hicit — ire  licet — 
Ah,  vainly  would  we  part! 
Thy  tomb  is  the  faithful  heart, 
About  evermore  we  bear  thee; 
For  who  from  the  heart  can  tear  theef 
Yg-inly  we  sprinkle  o'w  ug> 


B16  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEH. 

Tlie  drops  of  the  cleansing  stream; 
And  vainly  bright  before  us 

The  lustral  fire  shall  beam, 
For  where  is  the  charm  expelling 
Thy  thought  from  its  sacred  dwellingt 
Our  griefs  are  thy  funeral  feast, 
And  Memory  thy  mourning  priest, 

Salve— salrtl 

nicet— ire  licet! 
The  spark  from  the  hearth  is  gone 

"Wherever  the  air  sliall  bear  it; 
The  elements  take  their  own — 

The  shadows  receive  thy  spirit. 
It  will  soothe  thee  to  feel  our  grief, 

As  thou  glid'st  by  the  Gloomy  Riverl 
If  love  may  in  life  be  brief, 

In  death  it  is  fixed  forever. 

Salve — ealre! 
In  the  hall  which  our  feasts  illume 
The  rose  for  an  hour  may  bloom: 
But  the  cypress  that  decks  the  tomb— 
The  cypress  is  green  forever! 

Salve— salrel 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IN  WHICH  AN  ADVENTURE  HAPPENS  TO  lONE. 

While  some  stayed  behind  to  share  with  the  priests  the  funeral 
banquet,  lone  and  her  handmaids  took  homeward  their  melan- 
choly way.  And  now  (the  last  duties  to  her  brother  performed), 
her  mind  awoke  from  its  absorption,  and  she  thought  of  her  af- 
fianced, and  the  dread  charge  against  him.  Not — as  we  have  be- 
fore said — attaching  even  a  momentary  belief  to  the  uimatural 
accusation,  but  nursing  the  darkest  suspicion  against  Arbaces, 
she  felt  that  justice  to  her  lover  and  to  her  murdered  relative  de- 
manded her  to  seek  the  praetor,  and  communicate  her  impression, 
unsuppoi-ted  as  it  might  be.  Questioning  her  maidens,  who  had 
hitherto — kindly  anxious,  as  I  have  said,  to  save  her  the  addi- 
tional agony — refrained  from  informing  her  of  the  state  of  Glau- 
cus.  she  learned  that  he  had  been  dangerously  ill;  that  he  was  in 
custody,  under  the  roof  of  Sallust;  that  the  day  of  his  trial  was 
appointed. 

"Averting  gods!"  she  exclaimed;  "and  have  I  been  so  long 
forgetful  of  him?  Have  I  seemed  to  shun  him?  Ohl  let  me  has- 
ten to  do  him  justice — to  sliow  that  I,  the  nearest  relative  of  the 
dead,  believe  him  innocent  of  the  charge.  Quick!  quick!  let 
us  fly.  Let  me  soothe — tend — cheer  him!  and  if  they  will  not 
believe  me;  if  they  will  not  yield  to  my  conviction;  if  they  sen- 
tence him  to  exile  or  to  death,  let  me  share  the  sentence  with 
himl" 

Instinctively  she  hastened  her  pace,  confused  and  bewildered, 
scarce  knowing  whither  she  went;  now  designing  first  to  seek 
the  praetor,  and  now  to  rush  to  tlie  chamber  of  Glaucus.  She 
hurried  on — she  passed  the  gate  of  the  city — she  was  in  the  long 
ptreet  leading  up  the  town.    The  houses  was  opened,  but  none 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII  217 

were  yet  astir  in  the  streets;  the  life  of  the  city  was  scarce  awake 
—when  lo!  she  came  suddenly  upon  a  small  knot  of  men  stand- 
ing beside  a  covered  litter.  A  tall  figure  stepped  from  the  midst 
of  them,  and  lone  shrieked  aloud  to  behold  Arbaces. 

"  Fair  lone!"  said  he,  gently,  and  appearing  not  to  heed  her 
alarm:  "my  ward,  my  pupil!  forgive  me  if  I  disturb  thy  pious 
sorrows;  but  the  praetor,  solicitous  of  thy  honor,  and  anxious 
that  thou  mayst  not  rashly  be  implicated  in  the  coming  trial; 
knowing  the  strange  embarrassment  of  thy  state  (seeking  justice 
for  thy  brother,  but  dreading  punishment  to  thy  betrothed)— 
sympathizing,  too,  with  thy  unprotected  and  friendless  condi- 
tion, and  deeming  it  harsh  that  thou  shouldst  be  suffered  to  act 
unguided  and  mourn  alone— hath  wisely  and  paternally  confided 
thee  to  the  care  of  thy  lawful  guardian.  Behold  the  writing 
which  intrusts  thee  to  my  chai'ge. 

"Dark  Egyptian!"  cried  lone,  drawing  herself  proudly  aside; 
*'  begone!  It  is  thou  that  hast  slain  my  brother!  Is  it  to  thy  care, 
thy  hands  yet  reeking  with  his  blood,  that  they  will  give  the  sis- 
ter? Hal  thou  turnest  pale!  thy  conscience  smites  thee  I  thou 
tremblest  at  the  thunderbolt  of  an  avenging  god!  Pass  on,  and 
leave  me  to  my  woe!" 

"Thy  sori'ows  unstring  thy  reason,  lone,"  said  Arbaces,  at- 
tempting in  vain  his  usual  calmness  of  tone.  "  I  forgive  thee. 
Thou  wilt  find  me  now,  as  ever,  thy  surest  friend.  But  the  pub- 
lic streets  are  not  the  fitting  place  for  us  to  confer — for  me  to 
console  thee.  Approach,  slaves!  Come,  my  sweet  charge,  the 
litter  awaits  thee."^ 

The  amazed  and  terrified  attendants  gathered  round  lone,  and 
clung  to  her  knees. 

"  Arbaces,"  said  the  eldest  of  the  maidens,  "this  is  surely  not 
the  law!  For  nine  days  after  the  funeral,  is  it  not  written  that 
the  relatives  of  the  deceased  shall  not  be  molested  in  their 
houses,  or  interrupted  in  their  solitary  grief?" 

"Woman!"  returned  Ai'baces,  imperiously  waving  his  hand, 
"  to  place  a  ward  under  the  roof  of  her  guardian  is  not  against 
the  fimeral  laws.  I  tell  thee  I  have  tbe  fiat  of  the  praetor.  Thia 
delay  is  indecorous.    Place  her  in  the  litter." 

So  saying,  he  threw  his  arm  firm]y  round  the  shrinking  form 
of  lone.  She  drew  back,  gazed  earnestly  in  his  face,  and  then 
burst  into  hysterical  laughter: 

"  Ha,  ha!  this  is  well — well!  Excellent  guardian — paternal 
law!  Ha,  ha!"  And,  startled  herself  at  the  dread  echo  of  that 
shrill  and  maddened  laughter,  she  sank  as  it  died  away,  lifeless 

upon  the  ground A  minute  more,  and  Arbaces  had 

lifted  her  into  the  fitter.  The  bearers  moved  swiftly  on,  and  the 
unfortunate  lone  was  soon  borne  from  the  sight  of  h^s  weepiog 
haiidw9.M» 


318  THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEIt 


CHAPTER  X. 

WHAT  BECOMES  OP  NTDIA  IN  THE  HOUSE  OP  ARBACES.— THl 
EGYPTIAN  FEELS  COMPASSION  FOR  GLAUCUS.— COMPASSION  IS  OP- 
TEN  A  VERY  USELESS  VISITOR  TO  THE  GUILTY. 

It  will  be  rememl^ered  that,  at  the  command  of  Arbaces, 
Nydia  followed  the  Egyptian  to  his  home,  and  conversing  tliere 
with  her,  he  learned  from  tlie  confession  of  her  deej^air  and  re- 
morse, that  her  hand,  and  not  Julia's,  had  administered  to  Glaii- 
cus  the  fatal  potion.  At  another  time  the  Egyptian  miglit  have 
conceived  a  philosophical  interest  in  soimding  the  depths  and 
origin  of  the  strange  and  absorbing  passion  whicli,  in  blindness 
and  in  slavery,  this  singular  girl  had  dared  to  cherish;  but  at 
present  he  spared  no  thought  from  himself.  As,  after  her  con- 
fession, the  poor  Nydia  threw  herself  on  her  knees  before  him, 
and  besought  him  to  restore  the  health  and  save  the  life  of  Glau» 
cus — for  in  her  youth  and  ignorance  she  imagined  the  dark  ma- 
gician all-powerful  to  effect  both — ^Arbaces,  with  unheeding  ears, 
was  noting  only  the  new  expediency  of  detaining  Nydia  a  prison- 
er until  the  trial  and  fate  of  Glaucus  were  decided.  For  if,  when 
he  judged  her  merely  the  accomplice  of  Julia  in  obtaining  the 
philter,  he  had  felt  it  was  dangerous  to  the  full  success  of  his 
vengeance  to  allow  her  to  be  at  large — to  appear,  perhaps,  as  a 
witness — to  avow  the  manner  in  which  the  sense  of  Glaucus  had 
been  darkened,  and  thus  win  indulgence  to  the  crime  of  which 
he  was  accused — how  much  more  was  she  hkely  to  volunteer 
her  testimony  when  she  herself  had  administered  the  draught, 
and,  inspired  h\  love,  would  be  only  anxious,  at  any  expense  of 
shame,  to  retrieve  her  error  and  preserve  Ijcr  beloved. 

Besides,  how  unworthy  of  the  rank  and  repute  of  Arbaces  to 
be  implicated  in  the  disgrace  of  pandering  to  the  passion  of 
Julia,  and  assisting  in  tlie  unholy  rites  of  the  Saga  of  Vesuvius  I 
Nothing  less,  indeed,  than  his  desire  to  induce  Glaucus  to  o^vn 
the  murder  of  Apaecides,  as  a  policy  evidently  the  best  both  for 
his  own  permanent  safety  and  his  successful  suit  with  lone, 
could  ever  have  led  him  to  contemplate  the  confession  of  Julia. 

As  for  Nydia,  who  was  necessarily  cut  off  by  her  blinduesa 
from  much  of  the  knowledge  of  active  life,  and  who,  a  slave  and 
a  stranger,  was  naturally  ignorant  of  the  perils  of  the  Roman 
Jaw,  slie  thought  rather  of  tlie  illness  and  delirium  of  her  Athe- 
nian, than  the  crime  of  which  she  had  vaguely  heard  hun  ac- 
cused, or  the  chances  of  the  impending  trial.  Poor  wretch  that 
she  was,  whom  none  addressed,  none  cared  for,  what  did  she 
know  of  the  senate  and  the  sentence;  the  hazard  of  the  law;  the 
ferocity  of  the  people;  the  arena  and  the  lion's  den?  She  was  ac- 
customed only  to  associate  Avith  the  tliought  of  Glaucus  every- 
thing tliat  was  prosperous  and  lofty;  she  could  not  imagine  that 
any  peril,  save  from  the  madness  of  her  love,  could  menace  that 
sacred  head.  He  seemed  to  her  set  apart  for  the  blessings  of  life. 
^S^^'  only  had  disturbed  the  current  of  his  felicity;  she  knew  not, 
she  dreamed  not,  that  the  stream,  once  so  bright,  was  dasliing 
o^  to  darkness  and  to  death.    It  was  therefor©   to   restore  th© 


THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII,  2l9 

brain  that  she  had  marred,  to  save  the  life  that  sJie  had  endan- 
gered, that  she  implored  the  assistance  of  the  great  Egyptian. 

"Daughter,"  said  Arbaces,  waking  from  his  revery,  "thou 
must  rest  here;  it  is  not  meet  for  thee  to  wander  along  the 
streets,  and  be  spurned  from  the  threshold  by  the  rude  feet  of 
slaves.  I  have  compassion  on  thy  soft  crime — I  will  do  all  to 
remedy  it.  Wait  here  patiently  for  some  days,  and  Glaucus 
shall  be  restored."  So  saying,  and  without  waiting  for  her  re- 
ply, he  hastened  from  the  room,  drew  the  bolt  across  the  door, 
and  consigned  the  care  and  wants  of  liis  prisoner  to  the  slave 
who  had  the  charge  of  that  part  of  the  mansion. 

Alone,  then,  and  musingly,  he  waited  the  morning  light,  and 
with  it  repaired,  as  we  have  seen,  to  possess  himself  of  the  person 
of  lone. 

His  primarj'^  object,  with  respect  to  the  unfortunate  Neapolitan, 
was  that  which  he  had  really  stated  to  Clodiiis,  viz.,  to  prevent 
her  interesting  herself  actively  in  the  trial  of  Glaucus,  and  also 
to  guard  against  her  accusing  him  (which  she  would,  doubtless, 
have  done)  of  his  former  act  of  perfidy  and  violence  toward  her, 
his  ward — denouncing  his  causes  of  vengeance  against  Glaucus 
— unveihng  the  hypocrisy  of  his  character — and  casting  any 
doubt  upon  his  veracity  in  the  charge  which  he  had  made  against 
the  Athenian. 

Not  till  he  had  encountered  her  that  morning — not  till  he  had 
heard  her  loud  denunciations — was  he  aware  that  he  had  also 
another  danger  to  apprehend  in  her  suspicion  of  his  crime.  He 
hugged  himself  now  in  the  thought  that  these  ends  were  effected; 
that  one,  at  once  the  object  of  his  passion  and  his  fear,  was  in  his 
power.  He  believed  more  than  ever  the  flattering  promises  of 
the  stars;  and  when  he  sought  lone  in  the  chamber,  in  the  in- 
most recesses  of  his  mysterious  mansion  to  which  he  had  consign- 
ed her — when  he  found  her  overpowered  by  blow  upon  blow, 
and  passing  from  fit  to  fit,  from  violence  to  torpor,  in  all  the 
alternations  of  hysterical  disease — he  thought  more  of  the  loveh- 
ness  wliicli  no  frenzy  could  distort,  than  of  the  woe  which  he 
had  brought  upon  her.  In  the  sangxiine  vanity  common  to  men 
who  through  life  have  been  invariably  successful,  whether  m  for- 
tune or  love,  he  flattered  liimself  that  when  Glaucus  had  perished 
— when  his  name  was  solemnly  blackened  by  the  award  of  a 
legal  judgment,  his  title  to  her  loVe  forever  forfeited  by  con- 
demnation to  death  for  the  murder  of  her  own  brother — her 
affection  would  be  changed  to  horror;  and  that  his  tenderness 
and  his  passion,  assisted  by  all  the  arts  with  which  he  well  knew 
how  to  dazzle  woman's*^  imagination,  might  elect  him  to  that 
throne  in  her  heart  from  which  his  rival  would  be  so  awfully  ex- 
pelled. This  was  his  hope;  but  should  it  fail,  his  unholy  and 
fervid  passion  whispered,  "At  the  worst,  7}0w  she  is  in  my 
power." 

Yet,  withal,  he  felt  that  uneasiness  and  apprehension  which 
attend  upon  the  chance  of  detection,  even  when  the  criminal  is 
insensible  to  the  voice  of  consequences — that  vague  terror  of  the 
consequences  of  crime  itself.  The  buoyant  air  of  Campania 
weighed  heavily  upon  his  breast;  he  longed   to   hurry   from   a 


m  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII, 

scene  where  danp:er  might  not  sleep  eternally  with  the  dead; 
and,  ha\ing  lone  now  in  liis  possession  he  secretly  resolved,  aa 
soon  as  he  had  witnessed  the  last  agony  of  his  rival,  to  transport 
liis  wealth — and  her.  the  costUest  creature  of  all,  to  some  distant 
shore. 

'*Yes,"  said  he,  striding  to  and  fro  his  solitaiy  chamber— 
"yes,  the  law  that  gave  me  the  person  of  my  ward 
gives  me  the  possession  of  my  bride.  Far  across 
the  broad  main  will  we  sweep  on  our  search  after  novel 
luxuries  and  inexperienced  pleasures.  Cheered  by  my  stars, 
supported  by  the  onjens  of  my  soul,  we  will  penetrate  to  tliose 
vast  and  glorious  worlds  whicli  my  wisdom  tells  me  lie  yet  un- 
tracked  in  the  recesses  of  the  circling  sea.  There  may  this  heart, 
possessed  of  love,  grow  once  more  alive  to  ambition — there, 
among  nations  uncrushed  by  the  Roman  yoke,  and  to  whose  ear 
the  name  of  Rome  has  not  yet  been  wafted,  I  may  found  an  em- 
pire, and  transplant  my  ancestral  creed;  renewing  the  ashes  of 
the  dead  Theban  rule;  continuing  on  yet  grander  shores  the  dy- 
nasty of  my  crowned  fathers,  and  waking  in  the  noble  heart  of 
lone  Idle  grateful  consciousness  that  she  shares  the  lot  of  one 
who,  from  the  aged  rottenness  of  the  slavish  civihzation,  restores 
the  primal  elements  of  greatness,  and  unites  in  one  mighty  soul 
the  attributes  of  the  prophet  and  the  king." 

From  the  exultant  soliloquy  Arbaces  was  awakened  to  attend 
the  trial  of  the  Athenian. 

The  worn  and  palUd  clieek  of  his  victim  touched  him  less  thaiL 
the  firmness  of  his  nerves  and  tlie  dauntlessness  of  his  brow;  for 
Arbaces  was  one  who  had  little  pity  for  what  was  unfortunate, 
but  a  strong  sympathy  for  what  was  bold.  The  congenialities 
that  bind  us  to  others  ever  assimilate  to  the  quaUties  of  our  own 
nature.  The  hero  weeps  less  at  the  reverses  of  his  enemy  than 
at  the  fortitude  with  which  he  bears  them.  All  of  us  are  human, 
and  Arbaces,  criminal  as  he  was,  had  liis  share  of  our  common 
feelings  and  our  mother-clay.  Had  he  but  obtained  from  Glaucus 
the  written  confession  of  his  crime,  which  would,  better  than  even 
the  judgment  of  others,  have  lost  him  with  lone,  and  removed 
from  Arbaces  the  chance  of  future  detection,  the  Egyptian  would 
liave  strained  every  nerve  to  save  his  rival.  Even  now  liis  hatred 
was  over — liis  desire  of  revenge  was  slaked;  he  crushed  his  prey, 
not  in  enmity,  but  as  an  obstacle  in  his  path.  Yet  was  he  not  the 
less  resolved,  tlie  less  crafty  and  persevering,  in  the  course  he 
pursued,  for  the  destiiiction  of  one  whose  doom  was  become 
necessary  to  the  attainment  of  his  objects;  and  while,  with  ap- 
parent reluctance  and  comi)assion,  he  gave  against  Glaucus  the 
evidence  which  condemnetl  liim,  he  secretly,  and  through  tl)e 
medium  of  tlie  priesthood,  fomented  that  i)opular  indignation 
which  made  an  effectual  obstacle  to  the  ])it.v  of  the  senate. 

He  had  sought  Julia;  he  had  detailed  to  her  the  confession  of 
Nydia;  he  had  easily,  therefore,  lullod  any  scruple  of  conscience 
which  might  have  led  her  to  extenuate  the  offense  of  Glaucus  by 
avowing  lu'r  share  in  her  frenzy:  and  the  more  readily,  for  lier 
vain  heart  had  loved  the  fame  and  prosjierity  of  Glaucus — not 
Glaucus  himself;  she  felt  no  affection  for  a  disgraced  man — ^nay. 


I'^JS  LAST  DATS  OF  POMPEII  221 

slie  almost  rejoiced  in  a  disgrace  that  humbled  the  hated  lone. 
If  Glaucus  could  not  be  her  slave,  neither  could  he  be  the 
adorer  of  her  rival.  This  was  sufficient  consolation  for 
any  regret  at  his  fate.  Volatile  and  fickle,  she  began  again  to  be 
moved  by  the  sudden  and  earnest  suit  of  Clodius,  and  was  not 
willing  to  hazard  the  loss  of  an  alliance  with  that  base  but  high- 
born noble  by  any  public  exposure  of  her  past  weakness  and  im- 
modest passion  for  another.  All  things  then  smiled  upon  Ai'baces 
—all  things  frowned  upon  the  Athenian. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

NYDIA  AFFECTS  THE  SORCERESS. 

When  the  Thessalian  found  that  Arbaces  returned  to  her  ne 
more — when  she  was  left,  hour  after  hour,  to  all  the  torture  of 
that  miserable  suspense  which  was  rendered  by  blindness  doubly 
intolerable,  she  began,  with  outstretched  arms,  to  feel  around  her 
prison  for  some  channel  of  escape;  and  finding  the  only  entrance 
secure,  she  called  aloud,  and  with  the  vehemence  of  a  temper 
naturally  violent,  and  now  sharpened  by  impatient  agony. 

"Ho,  girl!"  said  the  slave  in  attendance,  opening  the  door; 
**  art  thou  bit  by  a  scorpion?  or  thinkest  thou  that  we  are  dying 
of  silence  here,  and  only  to  be  preserved,  like  the  infant  Jupiter, 
by  a  hullabaloo?" 

"  Where  is  thy  master?  and  wherefore  am  I  caged  here?  I  want 
air  and  liberty;  let  me  go  forth!" 

"  Alas!  little  one,  hast  thou  not  seen  enough  of  Arbaces  to  know 
that  his  will  is  imperial?  He  hath  ordered  thee  to  be  caged; 
and  cagod  thou  art,  and  I  am  thy  keeper.  Thou  canst  not  have 
air  and  liberty;  but  thou  mayest  have  what  are  much  better 
things— food  and  wine." 

"  Proli  Jupiter!"  cried  the  girl,  wringing  her  hands;  "  and  why 
am  I  thus  imprisoned?  What  can  the  great  Arbaces  want  with 
so  poor  a  thing  as  I  am?" 

"That  I  know  not,  unless  it  be  to  attend  on  thy  new  mistress, 
who  has  been  brought  hither  this  day." 

"  What!  lone  here?" 

"  Yes,  poor  lady;  she  liked  it  little,  I  fear.  Yet,  by  the  Temple 
i)f  Castor!  Arbaces  is  a  gallant  man  to  the  women.  Thy  lady  is 
his  wai'd,  thou  knowest." 

"  Wilt  thou  take  me  to  her?" 

"  She  is  ill— frantic  with  rage  and  spite.  Besides,  I  have  nq 
orders  to  do  so;  and  I  never  think  of  myself.  When  Arbacei 
made  me  slave  of  these  chambers,  he  said,  '  I  have  but  one  lessoii 
to  give  thee;  while  thou  servest  me,  thou  must  have  neither  ears^ 
eyes  nor  thought;  thou  must  be  one  quality— obedience.' " 

* '  But  what  harm  is  there  in  seeing  lone?" 

"  That  I  know  not;  but  if  thou  wan  test  a  companion,  I  fxm 
willing  to  talk  with  thee,  little  one,  for  I  am  solitary  enough  m 
my  diAll  cubiculuQi.  And,  by  tlie  way,  thou  art  Thessa]ian->' 
knowest  thou  not  some  cunning  amusement  of  knife  and  shearer, 
somo  pretty  trick  of  telling  fortunes,  as  mos't  of  thy  rat;e  do,  1^ 
orde/  to  pass  tlie  time?" 


d?2  THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEH, 

**  Tush,  slave,  hold  thy  peace!  or,  if  thou  wilt  speak,  what  hast 
thou  heard  of  tlie  state  of  Glaucus?" 

' '  Why,  my  master  has  gone  to  the  Athenian's  trial;  Glaucus 
will  smart  for  itl" 

"For  what?'* 

**  The  murder  of  the  priest  Apagcides." 

"Ha!"  said  Nydia,  pressing  her  handy  to  her  forehead, 
**  something  of  this  I  have  indeed  heard,  but  understand  not. 
Yet,  who  \vi\\  dare  to  touch  a  hair  of  his  head?" 

"  That  \%-ill  be  the  lion,  I  fear." 

*'  Averting  gods!  what  wickedness  dost  thou  utter?" 

"  Why,  only  that,  if  he  be  found  guilty,  the  lion,  or  may  be 
tbeiiger,  \^ill  be  his  executioner." 

Nydia  leaped  up  as  if  an  an-ow  had  entered  her  heart;  she 
uttered  a  piercing  scream;  then,  falling  before  the  feet  of  the 
slave,  she  cried,  in  a  tone  that  melted  even  his  rude  heart: 

**Ah!  tell  me  thou  jestest;  thou  utterest  not  the  truth;  speak, 
speak !" 

"Why,  by  my  faith,  blind  girl,  I  know  nothing  of  the  law;  it 
may  not  be  so  bad  as  I  say.  But  Arbaces  is  his  accuser,  and 
the  people  desire  a  victim  for  the  arena.  Cheer  thee  I  but  what 
hath  the  fate  of  the  Athenian  to  do  with  thine?" 

"  No  matter,  no  matter,  he  has  been  kind  to  me;  thou  knowest 
not,  then,  what  they  will  do?  Arbaces  his  accuser!  O  fate!  The 
people,  the  people.  Ah!  they  can  look  upon  his  face;  who  will 
be  cruel  to  the  Athenian.  Yet  was  not  love  itself  cruel  to 
him?" 

So  saying,  her  head  dropped  upon  her  bosom:  she  sank  into 
silence;  scalding  tears  flowed  down  her  cheeks;  and  aU  the 
kindly  efforts  of  the  slave  were  unable  either  to  console  her  or 
distract  tlie  absorption  of  her  revery. 

When  his  household  cares  obliged  the  ministrant  to  leave  her 
room,  Nydia  began  to  re-collect  her  thoughts.  Arbaces  was  the 
accuser  of  Glaucus;  had  imprisoned  her  here;  was  not  tliat  a 
proof  that  her  liberty  might  be  serviceable  to  Glaucus?  Yes,  she 
was  evidently  inveigled  into  some  snare;  she  was  contributing 
to  the  destruction  of  her  beloved!  Oh,  how  she  panted  for 
release!  Fortunately,  for  her  sufferings,  all  sense  of  pain 
became  merged  in  the  desire  of  escape;  and  as  she  began  to 
resolve  the  possibiUty  of  dehverance,  she  grew  calm  and 
thoughtful.  She  possessed  much  of  the  craft  of  her  sex,  and 
it  had  been  increased  in  her  breast  by  her  early  servitude.  What 
slave  was  ever  destitute  of  cunning?  She  resolved  to  practice 
upon  her  keeper;  and.  calling  suddenly  to  mind  his  superstitious 
query  as  to  her  Thessalian  art,  she  hoped  by  that  handle  to 
work  out  some  method  of  release.  These  doubts  occupied  her 
mind  during  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  the  long  hours  of  the 
night,  and,  accordingly,  when  Sosia  visited  her  the  following 
morning,  she  hastened  to  divert  his  garrulity  into  that  channel 
in  which  it  had  before  evinced  a  natural  disposition  to  flow. 

She  was  aware,  however,  tliat  her  only  chance  of  escape  was 
at  night ;  and  accordingly  she  was  obliged,  with  a  bitter  pang  at 
Ibe  d«lay,  to  defer  till  then  her  purposed  attempt. 


THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEII.  223 

•*The  night,"  said  she,  *'  is  the  sole  time  in  which  we  can  well 
decipher  the  decrees  of  Fate — then  it  is  thou  must  seek  me.  But 
what  desire  thou  to  learn  ?  " 

"By  Pollux  !  I  should  like  to  know  as  much  as  my  master  * 
but  that  is  not  to  be  expected.  Let  me  know,  at  least,  whethez 
I  shall  save  enough  to  purchase  my  freedom,  or  whether  this 
Egyptian  will  give  it  me  for  nothing. .  He  does  such  generous 
things  sometimes.  Next,  suppose  that  be  true,  shall  I  possess 
myself  of  that  snug  taberna  among  the  Myropoha  which  I  have 
long  had  in  my  eyes  ?  'Tis  a  genteel  trade  that  of  a  perfumer, 
andsuits  areth'ed  slave  who  has  something  of  a  gentleman  about 
him  I" 

"  Ah !  so  you  would  have  precise  answers  to  those  questions? 
There  are  various  ways  of  satisfying  you.  There  is  the  Litho- 
manteia,  or  speaking-stone,  which  answers  your  prayer  with  an 
infant's  voice  ;  but  then,  we  have  not  that  precious  stone  with 
us — costly  is  it  and  rare.  Then  there  is  the  Gastromanteia, 
whereby  the  demon  casts  pale  and  deadly  images  upon  water, 
prophetic  of  the  future.  But  this  art  requires  also  glasses  of  a 
peculiar  fashion,  to  contain  the  consecrated  liquid,  which  we 
have  not.  I  think,  therefore,  that  the  simplest  method  of  satis- 
fying your  desire  would  be  by  the  Magic  of  Air." 

"  I  trust,"  said  Sosia,  tremulously,  "  that  there  is  nothing  very 
frightful  in  the  operation?    I  have  no  love  for  apparitions." 

'*  Fear  not ;  thou  wilt  see  nothing  ;  thou  wilt  only  hear  by  the 
bubbling  of  water  whether  or  not  thy  suit  prospers.  First,  then, 
be  sure,  from  the  rising  of  the  evening  star,  that  thou  leavest  the 
garden-gate  somewhat  open,  so  that  the  demon  may  feel  himself 
invited  to  enter  therein  ;  and  place  fruits  and  water  near  the  gate 
as  a  sign  of  hospitahty  ;  then,  three  hours  after  twilight,  come 
here  with  a  bowl  of  the  coldest  and  purest  water,  and  thou  shalt 
learn  all,  according  to  the  Thessalian  lore  my  mother  taught  me. 
But  forget  not  the  garden-gate — all  rests  upon  that ;  it  must  be 
open  when  you  come,  and  for  three  hours  previously." 

"  Trust  me,"  repHed  the  unsuspecting  Sosia  ;  "  I  know  what  a 
gentleman's  feelings  are  when  a  door  is  shut  in  his  face,  as  the 
cook-shop's  hath  been  in  mine  many  a  day  ;  and  I  know  also, 
that  a  person  of  respectability,  as  a  demon  of  course  is,  cannot 
but  be  pleased,  on  the  other  hand,  with  any  little  mark  of  courteous 
hospitality.     Meanwhile,  pretty  one,  here  is  thy  morning's  meal." 

"And  what  of  the  trial?" 

"  Oh,  the  lawyers  are  still  at  it — talk,  talk — ^it  will  last  over  till 
to-mon*ow." 

"  To-morrow?— you  are  sure  of  that?'* 

"  So  I  hear." 

"  And  lone?" 

"  By  Bacchus  I  she  must  be  tolerably  well,  for  she  was  strong 
enough  to  make  my  master  stamp  and  bite  his  Up  this  morning. 
I  saw  him  quit  her  apartment  with  a  brow  like  a  thunder- 
storm." 

"  Lodges  she  near  tliis?'* 

"  No— in  the  upper  apartments.  5ut  I  must  not  stay  prating 
bere  longer— Fa|^/" 


334  THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEIL 

CHAPTER  XIL 

A  WASP  VENTURES  INTO  THE  SPIDER'S  WEB. 

The  second  night  of  tlie  trial  had  set  in;  and  it  was  neany  the 
time  in  which  Sosia  was  to  brave  the  dread  Unknown,  when 
there  entered,  at  that  very  garden-gate  which  the  skive  had  left 
ajar — not,  indeed,  one  of  the  mysterious  spirits  of  earth  or  air, 
but  the  heavy  and  most  human  form  of  Caleuus,  tlie  priest  of 
Lsis.  He  scarcely  noted  the  humble  offerings  of  indifferent  fruit 
and  still  more  indifferent  wine,  which  the  pious  Sosia  had  deemed 
good  enough  for  the  invisible  stranger  they  were  intended  to  al- 
mre.  '*  Some  tribute,"  thought  he,  "  to  the  garden  god.  By  my 
father's  head!  if  this  deityship  were  never  better  served,  he 
would  do  well  to  give  up  the  godly  profession.  Ah!  were  it  not 
for  us  priests,  the  gods  would  have  a  sad  time  of  it.  And  now 
for  Ai'baces — I  am  treading  a  quicksand,  but  it  ought  to  cover  a 
mine.  I  have  the  Egyptian's  life  in  my  power — what  will  he 
value  it  at?"' 

As  he  thus  soliloquized,  he  crossed  through  the  open  court 
into  the  peristyle,  where  a  few  lamps  here  and  there  broke  upon 
the  empire  of  the  star-Ut  night,  and,  issuing  from  one  of  the 
chambers  that  bordered  the  colonnade,  suddenly  encountered 
Arbaces. 

*'  Ho!  Calenus — seekestthou  me?"  said  the  Egyptian;  and  there 
was  a  little  embarrassment  in  his  voice. 

*'  iTes,  wise  Arbaces — I  trust  my  visit  is  not  unreasonable?" 

"Nav — it  was  but  this  instant  that  my  freedman  Callias 
sneezed  thrice  at  my  right  hand;  I  knew,  therefore,  some  good 
fortune  was  in  store  for  me — and,  lol  the  gods  have  sent  me  Ca- 
lenus." 

"Shall  we  within  to  your  chamber,  Arbaces?" 

"As  you  \vi\l;  but  the  night  is  clear  and  balmy — I  have  some 
remains  of  languor  yet  lingering  on  me  from  my  recent  illness— 
the  air  refreshes  me — let  us  walk  in  the  garden — we  are  equally 
alone  there." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  answered  the  priest;  and  the  Uvo  friends 
passed  slowly  to  one  of  tlie  many  terraces  which,  bordered  by 
marble  vases  and  sleeping  flowers,  intersected  the  garden. 

"It  is  a  lovely  night,"  said  Arbaces — blue  and  lieautiful  as  that 
on  wMch,  twenty  years  ago,  the  shores  of  Italy  first  broke  upon 
my  view.  My  Calenus,  age  creeps  upon  us — let  us,  at  least,  feel 
that  we  bave  lived." 

"Tliou,  at  least,  mayst  airogate  that  boast,"  said  Calenus, 
beating  about,  as  it  were,  for  an  opportunity  to  communicate  tlie 
secret  wliich  weighed  upon  him,  and  feeling  liis  unusual  awe  of 
Arbaces  still  more  impressively  that  niglit.  from  the  quiet  and 
friendly  tone  of  dignified  condescension  wliich  the  Egyptian  as- 
sumed— "Thou  hast  had  counth^ss  wealth — a  frame  on  whose 
close- woven  fibers  disease  can  find  no  sjxice  to  enter — prosperous 
love — inexhaustible  pleasure — and,  even  at  this  hour,  triumphant 
revenge." 

**Tbou  alludest  to  the  Athenian.    Ay,  to-morrow's  sun  the  fi£^ 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMFEll  225 

of  bis  death  will  go  forth.  The  senate  does  not  relent.  But  thou 
roistakest:  his  death  gives  me  no  ot]ier  gratification  than  that  it 
releases  me  from  a  rival  in  the  affection  of  lone.  I  entertain  no 
other  sentiment  of  animosity  against  that  unfortunate  homicide." 

"•Homicide!"  repeated  Caleuus,  slowly  and  meaningly;  and, 
halting  as  he  spoke,  he  fixed  his  eyes  ui)on  Arbaces.  The  stars 
ehone  pale  and  steadily  on  the  proud  face  of  their  prophet,  but 
they  betrayed  there  no  change;  the  eyes  of  Calenus  fell  disap- 
pointed and  abashed.  He  continued  rax)idly — "Homicide I  it  is 
well  to  charge  him  with  that  crime;  but  thou,  of  all  men,  know- 
est  that  he  is  innocent." 

"Explain  thyself,"  said  Arbaces  coldly;  for  he  had  prepared 
himself  for  the  hint  his  secret  fears  had  foretold. 

"Arbaces,"  answered  Calenus,  sinking  his  voice  into  a  wliisper, 
"I  was  in  the  sacred  grove,  sheltered  by  the  chapel  and  the  sur- 
rounding foliage;  I  overheard — I  marked  the  whole.  I  saw  thy 
weapon  pierce  the  heart  of  Ap<Tecidcs.  I  blame  not  the  deed — it 
destroyed  a  foe  and  an  apostate." 

"Thou  sawest  the  whole!"  said  Arbaces  dryly;  " so  I  imagined 
— thou  wert  alone?'' 

"Alone?"  returned  Calenus,  surprised  at  the  Egyptian's  cahn- 


"And  wherefore  wert  thou  hid  behind  the  chapel  at  that 
hour  ?" 

"Because  I  had  learned  the  conversion  of  Apascides  to  the 
Cliristian  faith — because  I  knew  that  on  that  si)ot  he  was  to  meet 
the  fierce  Olinthus — because  they  M^ere  to  meet  there  to  discuss 
the  plans  for  unveiling  the  sacred  mysteries  of  our  goddess  to  the 
people — and  I  was  there  to  detect,  in  order  to  defeat  them." 

"  Hast  thou  told  living  ear  what  thou  didst  witness  ?  " 

"  No,  my  master  ;  the  secret  is  locked  in  thy  servant's  breast." 

"  What  I  even  thy  kinsman  Burbo  guesses  it  not !  Come,  the 
truth  I" 

"By  the  gods " 

"  Hush  !  we  know  each  other->.  ^^'nat  are  the  gods  to  us?" 

"  By  the  fear  of  thy  vengeance,  ohen — no  !" 

"  And  why  hast  thou  hitherto  concealed  from  me  this  secret? 
Why  hast  thou  waited  till  the  eve  of  the  Athenian's  condemna- 
tion before  thou  hast  ventured  to  tell  me  that  Arbaces  is  a  mur- 
derer ?  And,  having  tarried  so  long,  why  revealest  thou  now 
that  knowledge  ?  " 

"  Because — because" — stammered  Calenus,  coloring  and  in  con- 
fusion. 

"Because,"  interrupted  Arbaces,  with  a  gentle  smile,  and  tap- 
ping the  priest  on  the  shoulder  with  a  kindly  and  familiar  ges- 
ture—*' because,  my  Calenus  (see  now,  I  will  read  thy  heart,  and 
explain  its  motives) — because  thou  didst  wish  thoroughly  to  com- 
mit and  entangle  me  in  the  trial,  so  that  I  might  stand  firmly 
Eledged  to  perjury  and  to  malice,  as  well  as  to  homicide ;  that 
aving  myself  whetted  the  appetite  of  the  populace  to  blood,  no 
wealth,  no  power,  could  prevent  my  becoming  their  victim;  and 
thou  tellest  me  thy  secret  now,  ere  the  trial  be  over,  and  the  in- 
^locent  condemned,  to  show  what  a  desperate  web  of  viUany  thj 


226  THE  LAST  DA  YFi  OF  POJSWEIL 

•word  to-morrow  could  destroj^;  to  enhance  in  this,  the  ninth  hoir?, 
the  price  of  thy  forbearance  ;  to  show  that  my  own  arts,  in  arous- 
ing the  popular  wrath,  would,  at  thy  witness  recoil  upon  myself ; 
and  that,  if  not  for  Glaucus,  for  me  would  gape  the  jaws  of  the 
lion  !    Is  it  not  so  ?'' 

**  Arbaces,"  replied  Calenus,  losing  all  the  vulgar  audacity  of 
his  natural  character,  "  verily  thou  art  a  magician;  thou  readest 
the  heart  as  it  were  a  scroll." 

"It  is  my  vocation,"  answered  the  Egyptian,  laughing  gently. 
"Well,  then,  forbear;  and  when  all  is  over  I  will  make  thee 
rich.'* 

*'  Pardon  me,"  said  the  priest,  as  a  quick  suggestion  of  that 
avarice,  which  was  his  master  passion,  bade  him  trust  no  future 
chance  of  generosity — "  pardon  me  ;  thou  saidst  right — we  know 
each  other.  If  thou  wouldst  have  me  sdent,  thou  must  pay 
something  in  advance,  as  an  offer  to  HariDOcrates.  If  the  rose, 
sweet  emblem  of  discretion,  is  to  take  root  firmly,  water  her  this 
night  with  a  stream  of  gold." 

"Witty  and  poetical!'  answered  Arbaces,  still  in  that  bland 
voice  which  lulled  and  encouraged,  when  it  ought  to  have  alarm- 
ed and  cliecked,  his  gripping  comrade.  "  Wilt  thou  not  wait  the 
morrow?" 

"Why  this  delay?  Perhaps,  when  I  can  no  longer  give  my 
testimony  without  shame  for  not  having  given  it  ere  the  inno- 
cent man  suffered,  thou  wilt  forget  my  claim;  and,  indeed,  thy 
present  hesitation  is  a  bad  omen  of  thy  future  gratitude." 

"  Well,  then,  Calenus,  what  wouldst  thou  have  me  pay  thee?" 

"Thy  life  is  very  precious,  and  thy  wealth  is  very  great,"  re- 
turned the  priest,  grinning. 

"  Wittier  and  more  witiby.  But  speak  out — what  shall  be  the 
simi?" 

"Arbaces,  I  have  heard  that  in  thy  secret  treasury  below,  be- 
neath those  rude  Oscan  arches  which  prop  thy  stately  halls,  thou 
hast  piles  of  gold,  of  vases,  and  of  jewels,  wliich  might  rival  the 
rer'eptacles  of  tlie  wealth  of  the  deified  Nero.  Though  mayst 
easily  spare  out  of  those  piles  enough  to  make  Calenus  among  the 
richest  priests  of  Pompeii,  and  yet  not  miss  the  loss." 

"  Come,  Calenus,"  said  Arbaces,  winuingly,  and  with  a  frank 
and  generous  air,  "thou  art  an  old  friend,  and  hast  been  a  faith- 
ful servsmt.  Tliou  canst  have  no  wish  to  take  away  my  Hfe,  nor 
I  a  desire  to  stint  thy  reward;  thou  shalt  descend  vAih  me  to  that 
treasury  tliou  referrest  to,  thou  shalt  feast  thine  eyes  with  the 
blaze  of  uncounted  gold  and  the  sparkle  of  priceless  gems;  and 
thou  shalt,  for  thy  own  reward,  bear  away  with  thee  this  night 
as  much  as  thou  canst  conceal  beneath  thy  robes.  Nay,  when 
thou  hast  once  seen  wliat  thy  friend  possesses,  thou  wilt  learn 
how  foolish  it  would  be  to  injure  one  who  has  so  much  to  bestow. 
Wlieu  ClaiK'UH  is  no  more,  thou  shalt  ])ay  the  treasury  another 
visit.     Speak  I  frankly  and  as  a  friend?" 

"  Oh,  greatest,  Ix^st  of  men!*'  cried  Calenus,  ahnost  weeping 
witli  joy,  "  canst  thou  thus  forgive  my  injurious  doub/-e  of  thy 
.justice,  thy  generosity?" 


The  last  days  of  po^ipml  i^s: 

"HusliI  one  other  turn,   and  we  will  descend  to  tlie  Oscan 
srches." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  SLAVE  O^NSULTS  THE  ORACLE.— THEY  WHO  BLIND  THEMSELVES 
THE  BLIND  MAY  FOOL. — TWO  NEW  PRISONERS  MADE  IN  ONE 
NIGHT. 

laiPATiENTLY  Njdia  awaited  tlie  arrival  of  the  no  less  anxious 
Sosia.  Fortifying  his  courage  by  plentiful  potations  of  a  better 
liquor  than  that  provided  for  the  demon,  the  credulous  minis- 
trant  stole  into  the  blind  girl's  chamber. 

"Well,  Sosia,  and  art  thou  prepared?  Hast  thou  the  bowl  of 
pure  water?" 

"  Verily,  yes;  but  I  tremble  a  little.  You  are  sure  I  shall  not 
see  the  demon?  I  have  heard  that  those  gentlemen  are  by  no 
means  of  a  handsome  person  or  a  civil  demeanor." 

"  Be  assured!  And  hast  thou  left  the  garden-gate  gently  open?" 

"Yes;  and  placed  some  beautiful  nuts  and  apples  on  a  little 
table  close  by." 

"That's  well.  And  the  gate  is  open  now,  so  that  the  demon 
may  pass  through  it?" 

"  Sm-ely  it  is." 

"Well,  then,  open  this  door;  there — leave  it  just  ajar.  And 
now.  Sosia,  give  me  the  lamp." 

"  What!  you  will  not  extmg-uish  it?'* 

"No;  but  I  must  breathe  my  spell  over  its  ray.  There  is  a 
spirit  in  fire.     Seat  thyseK." 

The  slave  obeyed;  and  Nydia,  after  bending  for  some  momenta 
silently  over  the  lamp,  rose,  and  in  a  low  voice  chanted  the  fol- 
lowing rude 

INVOCATION   TO   THE   SPECTER  OF  THE  AIR. 

Loved  alike  by  Air  and  Water, 
Aye  must  be  Thessalia's  daughter; 
To  us,  Olympian  hearts,  are  given 
Spells  that  dr^v  the  moon  from  heaven. 

All  that  Egypt's  learning  wrought — 

All  that  Persia's  Magi  taught — 
Won  from  song,  or  wrung  from  flowers, 
Or  whispered  low  by  fiend— are  ours. 

Specter  of  the  viewless  air, 

Hear  the  blind  Thessalian's  prayer: 

By  Erictho's  art  that  shed 

Dews  of.  life  when  life  was  fled: 

By  lone  Ithaca's  wise  king. 

Who  could  wake  the  crystal  spring 

To  the  voice  of  prophecy 

By  the  lost  Eurydice, 

Summon'd  from  the  shadowy  throng. 

At  the  muse-son's  magic  song — 

By  the  Colchian's  awful  charms, 

When  fair-haired  Jason  left  her  arms; 

Specter  of  the  airy  halls, 

One  who  owns  thee  duly  calls  I 


SS^  THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEtt 

Breatlio  along  tlie  bi-iinining  bowl. 
And  instruct  the  fearful  soul 
In  tlie  shadowy  things  that  lio 
Dark  in  dim  futurity. 
Come,  wild  demon  of  the  air, 
Answer  to  thy  votary's  prayer; 
Come!  oh,  cornel 

And  no  god  on  heaven  or  earth — 
Not  the  Paphian  Queen  of  Mirth, 
Nor  the  vivid  Lord  of  Light, 
Nor  the  triple  Maid  of  Night, 
Nor  the  Thunderer's  self,  shall  be 
Blest  and  honor'd  more  than  theel 
Come!  oh,  come! 

'*  The  specter  is  certainly  coming,"  said  Sosia.  "  I  feel  him 
running  along  my  hair." 

"Place  the  bowl  of  water  on  the  ground.  Now,  then, give  me 
the  napkin,  and  let  me  fold  up  thy  face  and  eyes." 

*'Ah!  That's  always  the  custom  with  these  charms.  Not  so 
tight,  though;  gently — gently." 

"There— thou  canst  not  see?" 

**  See,  by  Jupiter!    No,  nothing  but  darkness." 

**  Address  then,  to  the  specter  whatever  question  thou  would st 
ask  him,  in  a  low,  whispered  voice,  three  times.  If  thy  question 
is  answered  in  the  affirmative,  thou  wilt  hear  the  water  ferment 
and  bubble  before  the  demon  breathes  upon  it;  if  in  the  negative 
the  water  will  be  quite  silent." 

"  But  you  will  not  play  any  trick  with  tlie  water,  eh?" 

"Let  me  place  the  bowl  under  tliy  feet — so.  Now  thou  wilt 
perceive  that  I  cannot  touch  it\vitl)Out  thy  knowledge." 

"Very  fair.  Now,  then.  O  Bacchus!  befriend  me.  Thou 
knowest  that  I  have  ahNays  loved  thee  better  than  all  the  other 
gods,  and  1  \^^ll  dedicate  to  thee  that  silver  cup  I  stole  last  year 
from  the  burly  carptor  (butler),  if  thou  wilt  but  befriend  me 
with  this  water-loving  demon.  And  thou,  O  Spirit,  hsten  and 
hear  mel  Shall  I  be  enabled  to  purchase  my  freedom  next  year? 
Thou  knowest,  for,  as  thou  livest  in  air,  tlie'  birds  have  doubtless 
acquainted  tliee  with  every  secret  of  this  house — thou  knowest 
that  I  have  filched  and  pilfered  all  that  I  lionestly — that  is, 
safely — coiUd  lay  finger  upon  for  the  last  throe  years,  and  I  yet 
w^ant  two  tliousand  sesterces  of  the  full  sum.  Shall  I  be  able,  O 
good  Spirit,  to  make  up  the  deficiency  in  tlie  course  of  this  year? 
Speak — lia,  does  the  water  bubble?  No;  all  is  still  as  a  tomb. 
Well,  then,  if  not  tliis  year,  in  two  years?  Ah!  I  hear  something; 
the  demon  is  scratchine:  at  the  door;  he'll  be  here,  presently — in 
two  years,  my  good  fellow?  Come  now,  two:  that's  a  very  rea- 
sonable time.  What,  dumb  still!  Two  years  and  a  half— three 
—four?  Ill  fortune  to  you,  friend  demon!  You  are  not  a  lady, 
that's  clear,  or  you  would  not  keep  silence  so  long.  Five— six — 
sixty  years,  and  may  Pluto  seize  you!  I'll  ask  no  more."  And 
Sosia,  in  a  rage,  kicked  down  the  water  over  liis  legs.  He  then, 
after  much  fumbUng    and  more  cursing,   managed   to  extri- 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  22ft 

cate  his  head  from  the  napkin,  in  which  it  was  completely  folded 
— stared  round — and  discovered  that  he  was  in  the  dark. 

*'  What!  ho!  Nydia,  the  lamp  is  gone!  Ah,  traitress,  and  thou 
art  gone  too;  but  I'll  catch  thee — tbou  shalt  smart  for  this!" 

The  slave  gi-oped  his  way  to  the  door;  it  was  bolted  from  ^vith^ 
out;  he  was  a  prisoner  instead  of  Nydia.  What  could  he  do?  H© 
did  not  dare  to  knock  loud — to  call  out — lest  Arbaces  should  over, 
hear  him,  and  discover  how  he  had  been  duped;  and  Nydia. 
meanwhile,  had  probably  ali-eady  gained  the  garden-gate,  and 
was  fast  on  her  escape, 

*'  But,"  thought  he,  "  she  will  go  home,  or  at  least,  be  some- 
where in  the  city.  To-morrow,  at  dawn,  when  the  slaves  are  at 
work  in  the  peristyle,  I  can  make  myself  heard;  then  I  can  go 
forth  and  seek  her.  I  shall  be  sure  to  find  and  bring  her  back, 
before  Arbaces  knows  a  word  of  tlie  matter.  Ah!  that's  the  best 
plan.  Little  traitress,  my  fingers  itch  at  thee;  and  leave  only  a 
bowl  of  water,  too!  Had  it  been  wine,  it  would  have  been  some 
comfort." 

While  Sosia,  thus  entrapped,  was  lamenting  his  fate,  and  re- 
volving his  schemes  to  repossess  himself  of  Nydia,  the  blind  girl, 
with  that  singular  precision  and  dexterous  rapidity  of  motion 
which,  we  have  before  observed,  was  peculiar  to  her,  had  passed 
lightly  along  the  peristyle,  threaded  the  opposite  passage  that  led 
into  the  garden,  and,  with  a  beating  heart,  was  about  to  proceed 
toward  the  gate,  when  she  suddenly  heard  the  sound  of  ap- 
proaching steps,  and  distinguished  the  dreaded  voice  of  Arbaces 
nimself.  She  paused  for  a  moment  in  doubt  and  terror;  then  sud- 
denly it  flashed  across  her  recollection  that  there  w^as  another 
passage  which  was  little  used  except  for  the  admission  of  the  fair 
partakers  of  the  Egyptian's  secret  revels,  and  which  wound  along 
the  basement  of  that  massive  fabric  tow^ard  a  door  which  also 
communicated  with  the  garden.  By  good  fortune  it  might  be 
open.  At  that  thought,  she  hastily  retraced  her  steps,  descend- 
ing the  narrow  stairs  at  the  right,  and  was  soon  at  the  entrance 
of  the  passage.  Alas!  the  door  at  the  entrance  was  closed  and 
secured.  While  she  w^as  yet  assuring  herself  that  it  was  indeed 
locked,  she  heard  behind  her  the  voice  of  Calenus,  and,  a  moment 
after,  that  of  Arbaces  in  low  reply.  She  could  not  stay  there ;  they 
were  probably  passing  to  that  very  door.  She  sprang  onward, 
and  felt  herself  in  unknown  ground.  The  air  grew  damp  and 
chill;  this  reassured  her.  She  thought  she  might  be  among  the 
cellars  of  the  luxurious  mansion,  or,  at  least,  in  some  rude  spot 
not  Hkely  to  be  visited  by  its  haughty  lord,  when,  again,  her 
quick  ear  caught  steps  and  the  sound  of  voices.  On,  on,  she  hur- 
ried, extending  her  arms,  which  now  frequently  encoimtered  pil- 
lars of  thick  and  massive  form.  With  a  tact,  doubled  in  acute- 
ness  by  her  fear,  she  escaped  these  perils,  and  continued  her  way, 
the  air  growing  more  and  more  damp  as  she  proceeded;  yet  still, 
as  she  ever  and  anon  paused  for  breath,  she  heard  the  advancing 
steps  and  the  indistinct  murmur  of  voices.  At  length  she  was 
abruptly  stopped  by  a  wall  that  seemed  the  limit  of  her  path. 
Was  there  no  spot  in  wWch  »he  could  hide?  No  anerture?  no 
ca,vity? 


230  THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEII, 

There  was  nonel  She  st(ipped,  and  wrunpj  her  hands  in  de» 
Bjmir;  then  again,  nerved  a.s  the  voices  neared  upon  her,  she  hur- 
ried on  by  the  side  of  the  wall;  and  coming  suddenly  against  one 
of  the  sharp  buttresses  that  here  and  there  jutted  boldly  forth, 
she  fell  to  the  groimd.  Tliough  much  bruised,  her  senses  did 
not  leare  her;  she  uttered  no  cry;  nay,  she  hailed  the  accident 
that  had  led  her  to  something  like  a  screen  ;  and  creeping  close 
up  to  the  angle  formed  by  the  buttress,  so  that  on  one  side  at 
least  she  was  sheltered  from  view,  she  gathered  her  shght  and 
small  form  into  its  smallest  compass,  and  breathlessly  awaited 
her  fate. 

Meanwhile  Arbaces  and  the  priest  were  taking  their  way 
to  that  secret  chamber  whose  stores  were  so  vaunted  by  the 
Egyptian.  They  were  in  a  vast  subterranean  atrium,  or  hall ; 
the  low  roof  was  supported  by  short,  thick  pillars  of  an  archi- 
tectiu-e  far  remote  from  the  Grecian  graces  of  that  luxuriant 
period.  The  single  and  pale  lamp,  which  Arbaces  bore,  shed 
but  an  imperfect  ray  over  the  bare  and  rugged  walls,  in  which 
the  huge  stones,  without  cement,  were  fitted  curiously  and  un- 
couthly  into  each  other.  The  disturbed  reptiles  glared  dully  on 
the  intruders,  and  then  crept  into  the  shadow  of  the  walls. 

Calenus  shivered  as  he  looked  aroimd  and  breathed  the  damp, 
unwholesome  air. 

"  Yet,"  said  Arbaces,  with  a  smile,  perceiving  his  shudder, 
"it  is  these  rude  abodes  that  furnish  the  luxuries  of  the  halls 
above.  They  are  like  the  laborers  of  the  world — we  despise 
their  ruggedness,  yet  they  feed  the  very  pride  that  disdains 
them." 

"And  whither  goes  yon  dim  gallery  to  the  left?"  asked  Calenus; 
"in  the  depth  of  gloom  it  seems  without  limit,  as  if  winding 
into  Hades." 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  does  but  conduct  to  the  upper  day,"  an- 
swered Arbaces,  carelessly,  "  it  is  to  the  right  that  we  steer  to 
our  bourne." 

The  hall,  like  many  in  the  more  habitable  regions  of  Pompeii, 
branched  off  at  the  extremity  into  U\o  wings  or  passages;  the 
length  of  wliich.  not  really  great,  was  to  the  eye  considerably 
exaggerated  by  the  sullen  gloom  against  which  the  lamp  so 
faintly  struggled.  To  the  right  of  these  alca  the  two  comrades 
now  directed  their  steps. 

"  Tlie  gay  Glaucus  will  be  lodged  to-morrow  in  apartments  not 
much  drier  and  far  less  spacious  than  this,"  said  Calenus,  as  they 
passed  by  the  very  spot  where,  completely  trapped  in  the  shadow 
of  the  broad,  projecting  buttress,  cowered  the  Thessaliau. 

"Ay,  but  then  he  will  have  dry  room,   and  ample  enough,  in 
the  arena  on  the  following  day.     And  to  think,"  continued  Ar^ 
bares,  slowly  and  very  deliberately — "to  think   that  a  word  of 
thine  could  save  liim;  and  consign  Arbaces  to  his  doom  I" 
"Tliat  word  shall  never  be  spoken,"  said  Calenus. 
"  Right,  my  Calenns!  it  never  shi\ll,"  returned  Arbaces,  famil- 
iarly leaning  his  arm  on  the  priest's  shoulder;  "  and  now,  halt — 
we  are  at  the  door." 
The  light  trembled  against  a  small  door  deep  set  in  the  wall. 


S'M;  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIt  SM 

Stod  guarded  strongly  by  many  plates  and  bindings  of  iron,  that 
intersected  the  rough  and  dark  wood.  From  his  girdle  Arbaces 
now  drew  a  small  ring,  holding  three  or  four  short  but  strong 
keys.  Oh,  how  beat  the  gripping  heart  of  Calenus,  as  he  heard 
the  rusty  wards  growl,  as  if  resenting  the  admission  to  theitreas- 
ures  they  guarded! 

"Enter,  my  friend,"  said  Arbaces,  "  while  I  hold  the  lamp  on 
high,  that  thou  mayst  glut  thine  eyes  on  the  yellow  heaps."" 

The  impatient  Calenus  did  not  wait  to  be  twice  invited;  he 
hastened  toward  the  aperture. 

Scarce  had  he  crossed  the  threshold,  when  the  strong  hand  of 
Arbaces  plunged  him  forward. 

"  The  ivoni  shall  never  he  spoken^  said  the  Egyptian,  with  a 
loud,  exultant  laugh,  and  closed  the  door  upon  the  priest. 

Calenus  had  been  precij)itated  down  several  steps,  but  not  feel- 
ing at  the  moment  tlie  pain  of  his  fall,  he  sprang  up  again  to  the 
door,  and  beat  at  it  fiercely  with  his  clinched  fist;  he  cried  aloud 
in  what  seemed  more  a  beast's  howl  than  a  human  voice,  so  keen 
was  his  agony  and  despair:  "Oh,  release  me,  release  me,  and  I 
will  ask  no  gold!" 

The  words  but  imperfectly  penetrated  the  massive  door,  and 
Arbaces  again  laughed.  Then,  stamping  his  foot  violently,  re- 
joined, perhaps  to  give  vent  to  Ms  iong-stifled  passions — 

"All  the  gold  of  Dalmatia,"  cred  he,  "vdll  not  buy  tliee  a 
crust  of  bread.  Starve,  wretch  I  thy  dying  groans  will  never 
wake  even  the  echo  of  these  vast  halls,  nor  will  the  air  ever  re- 
veal, as  thou  guawest,  in  thy  desperate  famine,  thy  flesh  from 
thy  bones,  that  so  perishes  the  man  who  threatened,  and  could 
have  undone,  Arbaces!    Farewell!" 

"  O,  pity— mercy  I    Inhuman  villain;  was  it  for  tliis " 

The  rest  of  the  sentence  was  lost  to  the  ear  of  Arbaces  as  he 
passed  backward  along  the  dim  hall.  A  toad,  plump  and  bloated, 
lay  unmoving  before  his  path;  the  rays  of  the  lamp  fell  upon  its 
unshaped  hideousness  and  red  upward  eye.  Arbaces  tui-ned  aside 
that  he  might  not  harm  it. 

"Thou  art  loathsome  and  obscene,"  he  muttered,  "but  thou 
canst  not  injure  me;  therefore  thou  art  safe  in  my  path." 

The  cries  of  Calenus,  dulled  and  choked  by  the  barrier  that 
confined  him,  yet  faintly  reached  the  ear  of  the  Egyptian.  He 
paused  and  listened  intently. 

"  Tills  is  unfortimate,"  thought  he;  "  for  I  cannot  sail  till  that 
voice  is  dumb  forever.  ^  My  stores  and  treasures  lie,  not  in  yon 
dungeon,  it  is  true,  but  in  the  opposite  wing.  My  slaves,  as  they 
move  them,  must  not  hear  his  voice.  But  what  fear  of  that?  In 
three  days,  if  he  still  smwive,  liis  accents,  by  my  father's  beaid, 
must  be  weak  enough,  then! — no,  they  could  not  pierce  even 
through  his  tomb.  By  Isis,  it  is  cold! — 1  long  for  a  deep  draught 
of  the  spiced  Falernian." 

With  that  the  remorseless  Egyptian  drew  his  gown  closer  rouu4 
him,  and  resought  the  upper  air. 


2S5  The  LASi"  DATs  OP  POMPEtL 


CHAPTER  XrV. 

JTYDIA   ACCOSTS   CALENUS. 

What  words  of  terror,  yet  of  hope,  had  Nydia  overheard  I  flifl 
next  day  Glaucus  was  to  be  condemned;  yet  there  lived  one  w  ho 
could  save  him,  and  adjudge  Arbaces  to  his  doom,  and  that  oiae 
breathed  within  a  few  steps  of  her  hiding-placel  She  caught  his 
cries  and  slirieks— his  imprecations — his  prayers,  though  they 
fell  choked  and  muffled  on  her  ear.  He  was  imprisoned,  but  slie 
knew  the  secret  of  his  cell;  could  she  but  escape — could  she  but 
seek  the  prastor,  he  might  yet  in  time  be  given  to  light,  and  pre- 
serve the  Athenian.  Her  emotions  almost  stifled  her;  her  brain 
reeled — she  felt  her  sense  give  way — but  by  a  violent  effort  she 
mastered  herself;  and,  after  listening  intently  for  several  min- 
utes, till  she  was  convinced  that  Arbaces  had  left  the  space  to 
dolitude  and  herself,  she  crept  on  as  her  ear  guided  her  to  the 
very  door  that  closed  upon  Calenus.  Here  she  more  distinctly 
caught  his  accents  of  terror  and  despair.  Thrice  she  attempted 
to  speak,  and  tlirice  her  voice  failed  to  penetrate  the  folds  of  the 
heavy  door.  At  length  finding  the  lock,  she  applied  her  lips  to 
the  small  aperture,  and  the  prisoner  distinctly  heard  a  soft  tone 
breathe  his  name. 

His  blood  curdled— his  hair  stooa  on  end.  That  awful  solitude, 
what  mysterious  and  preternatural  being  could  penetratel 
**  Who's  there?"  he  cried  in  new  alarm;  *'  what  dread  larva,  calls 
upon  the  lost  Calenus?" 

"  Priest,"  replied  the  Thessalian,  "unknown  to  Arbaces,  I  have 
been,  by  the  permission  of  the  gods,  a  witness  to  his  perfidy.  If 
I  myself  can  escape  from  these  walls,  I  may  save  thee.  But  let 
thy  voice  reach  my  ears  through  this  narrow  passage,  and  an- 
swer what  I  ask." 

"  Ah,  blessed  spirit,"  said  the  priest,  exultingly,  and  obeying 
the  suggestion  of  Nydia,  *'  save  me,  and  I  will  sell  the  very  cups 
on  the  altar  to  pay  thy  kindness." 

♦'  I  want  not  thy  gold— I  want  thy  secret.  Did  I  hear  aright? 
— Canst  thou  sttve  the  Athenian  Glaucus  from  the  charge  against 
his  hfe?" 

'*I  can— I  cant— therefore  (may  the  Furies  blast  the  foul 
Egyptian!)  hath  Arbaces  snared  me  thus,  and  left  me  to  starve 
and  rot!" 

**  They  accuse  the  Athenian  of  murder,  canst  thou  disprove  the 
accusation?" 

"Only  free  me,  and  the  proudest  head  of  Pompeii  is  not  more 
safe  than  his.  I  saw  the  deed  done — I  saw  Arbaces  strike  the 
blow;  lean  convict  the  true  murderer  and  acquit  the  innnocent 
man.  But  if  I  perish  he  dies  also.  Dost  thou  interest  thyself 
for  Mm?  Oh,  blessed  stranger,  in  my  heart  is  the  urn  which  con- 
demns or  frees  him  1" 

"  And  thou  wilt  give  full  evidence  of  what  thou  knowest?" 

"Will!  Ohl  were  hell  at  my  feet— ves!  Revenge  on  the  false 
Egyptian!  revenger  revenge!  revenge!*' 

As  tluough  his  ^wound  teeth  Calenus  shrieked  forth  those  las^ 


r  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPE-n.  288 

words,  Nydia  felt  that  in  his  worst  passions  was  her  certainty 
of  his  justice  to  the  Athenian.  Her  heart  beat;  was  it — was  it  to 
be  her  proud  destiny  to  preserve  her  idolized,  her  adored? 
"Enough,"  said  she:  ''the  powers  that  conducted  me  hither  will 
carry  me  through  all.  Yes,  I  feel  that  I  shall  deliver  thee. 
Wait  in  patience  and  hope." 

"  But  be  cautious,  be  prudent,  sweet  stranger.  Attempt  not 
to  appeal  to  Ai-baces— he  is  marble.  Seek  the  prastor — say  what; 
thou  knowest, — obtain  his  writ  of  search^  bring  soldiers,  and 
smiths  of  cunning — tbese  locks  are  wondrous  strong!  Time 
flies — I  may  starve — starve!  if  you  are  not  quick!  Go — gol  Yet 
stay — it  is  horrible  to  be  alone!  the  air  is  like  a  charnel — and 
the  scorpions — ha!  and  the  pale  larvae!    Oh!  stay,  stay!" 

"Nay,"  said  Nydia,  terriiied  by  the  terror  of  the  priest,  and 
anxious  to  confer  with  herself — "nay,  for  thy  sake,  I  must  de- 
part.   Take  Hope  for  thy  companion;  farewell!" 

So  saying,  she  glided  away,  and  felt  with  extended  arms  along 
the  pillared  space  until  she  had  gained  the  farther  end  of  the 
hall  and  the  mouth  of  the  passage  that  led  to  the  upper  air. 
But  there  she  paused;  she  felt  that  it  would  be  more  safe  to  wait 
a,while,  until  the  night  was  so  far  blended  with  the  morning  that 
the  whole  house  would  be  buried  in  sleep,  and  so  that  she  might 
quit  it  unobserved.  She,  therefore,  once  more  laid  herself  down, 
and  counted  the  weary  moments.  In  her  sanguine  heart,  joy 
was  the  predominant  emotion.  Glaucus  was  in  deadly  peril;  but 
«/k3  would  save  him  I 


CHAPTER  XV. 

ARBACES    AND    lONE.— NYDIA  GAINS    THE    GARDEN.— WILL  SHE  ES» 
CAPE  AND  SAVE  THE   ATHENIAN? 

When  Arbaces  had  warmed  his  veins  by  large  draughts  of  that 
spiced  and  perfumed  wine  so  valued  by  the  luxurious,  he  felt 
more  than]  unusually  elated  and  exultant  of  heart.  There  is  a 
pride  in  triumphant  ingenuity,  not  less  felt,  perhaps,  though  its 
object  be  guilty.  Our  vain  human  nature  hugs  itself  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  superior  craft  and  self-obtained  success — afterward 
comes  the  horrible  reaction  of  remorse. 

But  remorse  was  not  a  feehug  which  Arbaces  was  likely  ever 
to  experience  for  the  fate  of  the  base  Calenus.  He  swept  from 
his  remembrance  the  thought  of  the  priest's  agonies  and  linger- 
ing death;  he  felt  only  that  a  great  danger  was  passed,  and  a 
possible  foe  silenced;  all  left  to  him  now  would  be  to  account  rx> 
the  priesthood  for  the  disappearance  of  Calenus;  and  this  he 
imagined  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  do.  Calenus  had  often  been 
employed  by  him  in  various  religious  missions  to  the  neighboring 
cities.  On  some  such  errand  he  could  now  assert  that  he  had 
been  sent,  with  offerings  to  the  shrines  of  Isis  at  Herculaneum 
and  NeapoUs,  placatory  of  the  goddess  for  the  recent  murder  of 
lier  priest  Apaecides.  When  Calenus  had  expired,  liis  body  might 
be  tlu'own,  previous  to  the  Egyi^tian's  departure  for  Pompeii,  into 
the  deep  stream  of  the  Saruus;  and  when  discovered  suspicion  would 
|>robabIy  fail  upon  the  Nazarene  atheists,  as  an  act  of  revenge  fox 


2^4  THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEtT. 

%\e  death  of  Olinthus  at  the  arena.  After  rapidly  running  ovel 
these  plans  for  screening  himself,  Arbaces  dismissed  at  once  from 
liis  mind  all  recollection  of  the  wretched  priest;  and,  animated  by 
the  success  which  had  lately  crowned  all  his  schemes,  he  surren- 
dered all  his  thoughts  to  lone.  The  last  time  he  had  seen  her,  she 
had  driven  him  from  her  presence  by  a  reproachful  and  bitter 
Bcorn,  which  his  arrogant  nature  was  unable  to  endure.  He  now 
felt  emboldened  once  more  to  renew  that  interview;    for  his 

Eassion  for  her  was  like  similar  feelings  in  other  men — it  made 
im  restless  for  her  presence,  even  though  in  that  presence  he 
was  exasperated  and  humbled.  From  delicacy  to  her  grief  he 
laid  not  aside  his  dark  and  unfestive  robes,  but,  renewing  the  per- 
fumes on  his  raven  locks,  and  arranging  his  tunic  in  its  most  be- 
coming folds,  he  sought  the  chamber  of  the  Neapolitan.  Ac- 
costing the  slave  in  attendance  without,  he  inquired  if  lone  had 
yet  retired  to  rest;  and  learning  that  she  was  still  up,  and  unu- 
sually c^uiet  and  composed,  he  ventured  into  her  presence.  He 
found  his  beautiful  ward  sitting  before  a  small  table,  and  leaning 
her  face  upon  both  her  hands  in  the  attitude  of  thought.  Yet 
the  expression  of  the  face  itself  possessed  not  its  wonted  bright 
and  Pysche-like  expression  of  sweet  intelligence;  the  hps  were 
apart— the  eye  vacant  and  unlieeding — and  the  long  dark  hair, 
falling  neglected  and  disheveled  upon  her  neck,  gave  by  the 
contrast  additional  paleness  to  a  cheek  which  had  already  lost  the 
roundness  of  its  contour. 

Arbaces  gazed  upon  her  a  moment  ere  he  advanced.  She,  too, 
lifted  up  her  eyes,  and  when  she  saw  who  was  the  intruder,  shut 
them  with  an  expression  of  pain,  but  did  not  stir. 

*•  Ah!"  said  Arbaces,  in  a  low  and  earnest  tone,  as  he  respect- 
fully, nay,  himably,  advanced  and  seated  himself  at  a  little  dis- 
tance from  the  table — "Ah,  that  my  death  could  remove  tliy 
hatred,  then  would  I  gladly  die.  Thou  wrongest  me,  lone;  but 
I  will  bear  the  wrong  without  a  murmur,  only  let  me  see  thee 
sometimes.  Chide,  reproach,  scorn  me,  if  thou  wilt — I  will  teach 
myself  to  bear.  And  is  not  thy  bitterest  tone  sweeter  to  me  than 
the  music  of  the  most  artful  lute  ?  In  thy  silence  the  world 
seems  to  stand  still — a  stagnation  curdles  up  the  veins  of  the 
earth — there  is  no  earth,  no  life,  without  the  light  of  thy  coun- 
tenance and  the  melody  of  thy  voice." 

'*  Give  me  back  ray  brother  and  my  betrothed,"  said  lone,  in  a 
calm  and  imploring  tone,  and  a  few  large  tears  rolled  unlieeded 
down  her  cheeks. 

"Would  that  I  could  restore  the  one  and  save  the  other!" 
returned  Arbaces  with  apparent  emotion.  "  Yes;  to  make  thee 
happy  I  would  renounce  my  ill-fated  love,  and  gladly  join  thy 
hand  to  the  Athenian's.  Perhaps  he  will  yet  come  unscathed 
from  his  trial  [Arbaces  had  prevented  her  learning  that  the 
trial  had  already  commenced];  if  so,  thou  art  free  to  judge  or 
condemn  him  thyself.  And  think  not,  O  lone,  that  I  would 
follow  thee  longer  with  a  prayer  of  love.  I  know  it  is  in  vain. 
Suffer  me  only  to  weep — to  mourn  with  thee.  Forgive  a  violence 
deeply  repented,  and  that  shall  offend  no  more.    Let  me  be  to 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIT.  235 

thee  only  what  I  once  was — a  friend,  a  father,  a  protector.  Ah, 
lone,  spare  me  and  forgive." 

"  I  forgive  thee.  Save  but  Glaucus,  and  I  will  renounce  him. 
O  mighty  Arbaces!  thou  art  powerful  in  evil  or  in  good:  save  the 
Athenian,  and  the  poor  lone  will  never  see  him  more."  As  she 
spoke  she  rose  with  weak  and  trembling  limbs,  and  falhng  at  his 
feet  she  clasped  his  knees:  "Oh!  if  thou  really  lovest  me— if 
thou  art  human— remember  my  father's  ashes,  remember  my 
childhood,  think  of  all  the  hours  we  passed  happily  together,  and 
save  my  Glaucus!" 

Strange  convulsions  shook  the  frame  of  the  Egyptian;  his 
features  worked  fearfully— he  turned  his  face  aside,  and  said,  in 
a  hollow  voice,  "If  I  could  save  him,  even  now,  I  would;  but 
the  Roman  law  is  stern  and  sharp.  Yet  if  I  could  succeed — if  I 
eould  rescue  and  set  him  free— wouldst  thou  be  mine — my  bride  ?" 

"Thine?"  repeated  lone,  rising:  "  thine!— thy  bride?  My 
brother's  blood  is  unavenged:  who  slew  him?  O  Nemesis,  can  I 
even  sell,  for  the  life  of  Glaucus,  thy  solemn  trust  ?  Arbaces — 
thine  f    Never." 

'•lone,  lone!"  cried  Arbaces,  passionately,  "  why  these  myster- 
ious words? — why  dost  thou  couple  my  name  with  the  thought 
of  thy  brother's  death?" 

"My  dreams  couple  it — and  dreams  are  from  the  gods." 

"Vain  fantasies  all!  Is  it  for  a  di'eam  that  thou  wouldst 
wrong  the  innocent,  and  hazard  thy  sole  chance  of  saving  thy 
lover's  life?" 

"Hear  me!"  said  lone,  speaking  fh'mly,  and  with  a  deliberate 
and  solemn  voice;  "  if  Glaucus  be  saved  by  thee,  I  will  never  be 
borne  to  his  home  a  bride.  But  I  cannot  master  the  horror  of 
other  rites:  I  cannot  wed  with  thee.  Interrupt  me  not;  but  mark 
me,  Arbaces! — if  Glaucus  die,  on  that  same  day  I  baffle  thine 
arts,  and  leave  to  thy  love  only  my  dust!  Yes — thou  mayst  put 
the  knife  and  the  poison  from  my  reach — thou  mayst  imprison — 
thou  mayst  chain  me,  but  the  brave  soul  resolved  to  escape  is 
never  without  means.  These  hands,  naked  and  unarmed  though 
they  be,  shall  tear  away  the  bonds  of  life.  Fetter  them,  and 
these  lips  shall  firmly  refuse  the  air.  Thou  art  learned— thou 
hast  read  how  women  have  died  rather  than  meet  dishonor.  If 
Glaucus  perish,  I  will  not  unworthily  linger  behind  him.  By  all 
the  Gods  of  heaven,  and  the  ocean,  and  the  earth,  I  devote  my- 
self to  death!    I  have  said!" 

High,  proud,  dilating  in  her  stature,  like  one  inspired,  the  air 
and  voice  of  lone  struck  an  awe  into  the  breast  of  her  listener. 

"Brave  heart!"  said  he,  after  a  short  pause;  "thou  art  indeed 
worthy  to  be  mine.  Oh!  that  I  should  have  di-eamed  of  such  a 
partner  in  my  lofty  destinies,  and  never  found  it  but  in  thee  I 
lone,"  he  continued  rapidly,  "  dost  thou  not  see  that  we  are  born 
for  each  other?  Canst  thou  not  recognize  something  kindred  to 
thine  own  energy— thine  own  courage — in  this  high  and  self-de- 
pendent soul?  We  are  formed  to  unite  our  sympathies — formed 
to  breathe  a  new  spirit  into  this  hackneyed  and  gross  world — 
formed  for  the  mighty  ends  which  my  soul,  sweeping  down  the 
gloom  of  time,  foresees  with  a  prophet's  vision*    With  a  resolu- 


206  TEE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIt 

tion  equal  to  thine  own,  I  defy  tliy  threats  of  an  inglorious  sui» 
ride.  I  hail  thee  as  my  ownl  Queen  of  climes  undarkened  by 
the  eagle's  wing,  unravaged  by  Iiis  beak,  I  bow  before  thee  in 
homage  and  in  awe — but  I  claim  thee  in  worship  and  in  love! 
Together  we  will  cross  the  ocean — together  we  will  found  our 
realm;  and  far  distant  ages  shall  acknowledge  the  long  race  of 
kings  born  from  the  marriage-l)ed  of  Arbaces  and  lone!" 

"  Thou  ravest!  These  mystic  declamations  are  suited  rather  to 
some  palsied  crone  selling  charms  in  tlie  market-plaae  than  to  the 
wise  Arbaces.  Thou  hast  heard  my  resolution— it  is  fixed  as  the 
Fates  themselves.  Orcus  has  heard  my  vow,  and  it  is  written  in 
the  book  of  the  unforgetful  Hades.  Atone,  tlien,  O  Arbaces! — 
atone  the  past:  convert  hatred  into  regard — vengeance  into  grati- 
tude; preserve  one  who  will  never  be  thy  rival.  These  are  acts 
suited  to  thy  original  nature,  which  gives  forth  sparks  of  some- 
thing high  and  noble.  They  weigh  in  the  scales  of  the  King  of 
Death:  they  turn  the  balance  on  that  day  when  the  disembodf^d 
soul  stands  shivering  and  dismayed  between  Tartarus  and  Ely- 
sium: they  gladden  the  heart  in  life,  better  and  longer  than  the 
reward  of  a  momentary  passion.  Oh,  Arbaces!  hear  me,  and  be 
swayed  I" 

"  Enough,  lone.  All  that  I  can  do  for  Glaucus  shall  be  done; 
but  blame  me  not  if  I  fail.  Inquire  of  my  foes,  even,  if  I  have 
not  sought,  if  I  do  not  seek,  to  turn  aside  the  sentence  from  his 
head;  and  judge  me  accordingly.  Sleep,  then,  lone.  Night 
wanes;  I  leave  thee  to  rest — and  may  est  thou  have  kinder  dreams 
of  one  who  has  no  existence  but  in  thine." 

"Without  waiting  a  reply,  Arbaces  hastily  withdrew;  afraid, 
perhaps,  to  trust  himself  further  to  the  passionate  prayer  of  lone, 
which  racked  him  with  jealousy,  even  while  it  touched  him  to 
compassion.  But  compassion  itself  came  too  late.  Had  lone 
even  pledged  him  her  hand  as  his  reward,  he  could  not  now — his 
evidence  given — the  populace  excited — have  saved  the  Athenian. 
Still,  made  sanguine  by  his  very  energy  of  mind,  he  threw  him- 
self on  the  chances  of  the  future,  and  believed  he  could  triumph 
over  the  woman  that  had  so  entangled  his  passions. 

As  his  attendants  assisted  to  unrobe  him  for  the  night,  the 
thought  of  Nydia  flashed  across  him.  He  felt  it  was  necesssary 
that  lone  should  never  learn  of  her  lover's  frenzy,  lest  it  might 
excuse  his  imputed  crime:  and  it  was  possible  that  lierattendantei 
might  inform  her  that  Nydia  was  under  his  roof,  and  she  might 
desire  to  see  her.  As  this  idea  crossed  him,  he  turned  to  one  of 
his  freedmen — 

"Go,  Callias,"  said  he,  "forthwith  to  Sosia,  and  tell  him  tliat 
on  no  pretense  is  he  to  suffer  the  blind  slave  Nydia  out  of  her 
chamber.  But.  stay — first  seek  those  in  attendance  upon  my 
ward,  and  caution  them  not  to  inform  her  that  the  blind  girl  is 
under  my  roof.     Go,  quick!'' 

The  frcttdman  hnstened  to  obey.  After  having  discharged 
his  coininission  with  respect  to  loiie's  attendant^!,  he  sought  the 
worthy  Sosia.  lie  found  him  not  in  the  little  cell  wliich  was  ap- 
portioned for  IMS  cubiculuiu;  Ue  called  hi«  name  aloud,  aixd  f rona 


THE  LAST  DATS  CF  POMPEII,  287 

KyvliA*&  chamber,  close  at  hand,  he  heard  the  voice  of  Sosia  re^ 

"  Ob,  Callias,  is  it  you  that  I  hear?  the  gods  be  praisedl  Open 
the  door,  I  pnay  you!" 

Callias  withdrew  the  bolt  and  the  rueful  face  ot  Sosia  hastily 
obtruded  itself. 

"What!  in  the  chamber  with  that  young  girl,  Sosia?  Proh 
pudor !  Are  there  not  fruits  ripe  enough  on  the  wall,  but  thaW; 
thou  must  tamper  with  such  green *' 

"  Name  not  the  little  witch!"  interrupted  Sosia,  impatiently; 
"  she  will  be  my  ruin!" 

And  he  forthwith  imparted  to  Callias  the  history  of  the  Air 
Demon,  and  the  escape  of  the  Thessahan. 

"  Hang  thyself,  then,  unhappy  Sosia.  I  am  just  charged  with 
a  message  to  thee;  on  no  account  art  thou  to  BuHer  her,  even 
for  a  moment,  from  that  chamber." 

"MemiserumP'  exclaimed  the  slave.  "What  can  I  do?  By 
this  time  she  may  have  visited  half  Pompeii.  But  to-morrow  1 
will  undertake  to  catch  her  in  her  old  haunts.  Keep  but  my 
counsel,  my  dear  Callias." 

"I  will  do  all  that  friendship  can,  consistent  with  my  own 
safety.  But  are  you  sm-e  she  has  left  the  house?  She  may  be 
hiding  here  yet." 

' '  How  is  that  possible?  She  could  easily  have  gained  the  gar- 
den, and  the  door,  as  I  told  thee,  was  open." 

"Nay,  not  so;  for,  at  that  very  hour  thou  specifiest,  Arbaces 
was  in  the  garden  with  the  priest  Calenus.  I  went  there  in  search 
of  some  herbs  for  my  master's  bath  to-morrow.  I  saw  the  table 
set  out;  but  the  gate  I  am  sure  was  shut;  depend  upon  it,  that 
Calenus  entered  by  the  garden,  and  naturally  closed  the  door  af- 
ter liim." 

"  But  it  was  not  locked." 

"Yes;  for  I  myself,  angry  at  a  negligence  that  mi^ht  expose 
the  bronzes  in  the  peristyle  to  the  mercy  of  any  robber,  turned 
the  key,  took  it  away,  and — as  I  did  not  see  the  proper  slave  to 
whom  to  give  it,  or  I  should  have  rated  him  finely — here  it  actua]- 
ly  is,  still  in  my  girdle." 

"  Oh,  merciful  Bacchus!  I  did  not  pray  in  vain,  after  all  Let 
us  not  lose  a  moment.  Let  us  to  the  garden  instantly;  she  may 
yet  be  there." 

The  good-natured  Callias  consented  to  assist  the  slave;  and  af- 
ter vainly  searching  the  chambers  at  hand,  and  the  recesses  of 
the  peristyle,  they  entered  the  garden. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Nydia  had  resolved  to  quit  her  hid- 
ing-place, and  venture  forth  on  her  way.  Lightly,  tremulously, 
holding  her  breath,  which  ever  and  anon  broke  forth  in  quick 
convulsive  gasps — now  gliding  by  the  flower-wreathed  columns 
that  bordered  the  peristyle — now  darkening  the  still  moonshine 
that  fell  over  its  tesselated  center — now  ascending  the  terrace  of 
tlie  garden — now  gliding  amid  the  gloomy  and  breathless  trees, 
she  gained  the  fatal  door—  to  find  it  locked!  AVe  have  all  seen 
that  expression  of  pain,  of  uncertainty,  of  fear,  which  a  sudden 
drisappoiT>tm©nt  of  touch,  if  I  may  use  the  expression,  casts  over 


^8  THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII, 

the  face  of  the  blind.  But  what  words  can  paint  the  intolerable 
woe,  the  sinking  of  the  whole  heart,  wliich  was  now  visible  on 
the  features  of  the  Tliessaliau?  Again  and  again  her  small, 
quivering  hands  wandered  to  and  fro  tlie  inexorable  door.  Poor 
tning  that  thou  wert!  in  vain  had  been  all  thy  noble  courage,  thy 
Innocent  craft,  thy  doublings  to  escape  the  hound  and  hunts- 
tnan?  Witliin  but  a  few  yards  from  thee,  laughing  at  thy  en- 
deavors— thy  despaii- — knowing  thou  w^ert  now  their  own,"^  and 
tvatching  with  cruel  patience  their  own  moment  to  seize  their 
own  prey — thou  art  saved  from  seeing  thy  pursuers! 

"Hush,  Callias! — let  lier  go  on.  Let  us  see  what  she  will  do 
Tvhen  she  has  convinced  herself  that  the  door  is  honest." 

"  Look!  she  raises  her  face  to  the  heavens — she  mutterg — she 
sinks  down  despondent!  No!  by  Pollux,  she  has  some  new 
scheme!  She  will  not  resign  herself!  By  Jupiter,  a  tough  spirit! 
See,  she  springs  ujd — she  retraces  her  steps — she  thinks  of  some 
other  chance!  I  advise  thee,  Sosia,  to  delay  no  longer;  seize  her 
ere  she  quit  the  garden— now!" 

•*  Ah!  runaway!  I  have  thee — eh?"  said  Sosia,  seizing  upon  the 
imhappy  Nydia. 

As  a  hare's  last  human  cry  in  the  fangs  of  the  dogs — as  the 
sharp  voice  of  terror  uttered  by  a  sleep-walker  suddenly  awaken- 
ed— broke  the  shriek  of  the  blind  girl,-  when  she  felt  the  abrupt 
grip  of  her  jailer.  It  was  a  shriek  of  such  utter  agony,  such 
entii-e  despair,  that  it  might  have  rung  hauntingly  in  your  ears 
forever.  She  felt  as  if  the  last  gasp  of  the  sinking  Glaucus  were 
torn  from  his  clasp.  It  had  been  a  suspense  of  life  and  death; 
and  death  had  won  the  game. 

"  God!  tliat  cry  will  alarm  the  house!  Arbaces  sleeps  full 
lightly.     Gag  her!"  cried  Callias 

"Ahl  here  is  the  very  napkin  with  which  the  young  witch 
conjured  away  my  reason!  Come!  that's  right;  now  thou  art 
dumb  as  w^ell  as  blind." 

And,  catching  the  light  weight  in  his  arms,  Sosia  soon  gained 
the  house,  and  reached  the  chamber  from  which  Nydia  had  es- 
caped. Tliere,  removing  the  gag,  he  left  her  to  a"^  solitude  so 
racked  and  terrible,  that  out  of  Hades  its  anguish  could  scarcely 
be  exceeded. 


CHAPTER  XYT. 

THE  SORROW  OF  BOON  COJIPANIONS    FOR    GUI*    AFFLICTIONS — THE 
DUNGEON  AND  ITS  VICTIMS. 

It  was  now  late  on  the  third  and  last  day  ^i  the  trial  of  Glau- 
cus and  Olinthus.  A  few  hours  after  the  ccnit  had  broke  up  and 
i'udgjnent  been  given,  a  small  party  of  the  fashionable  youth  of 
*omi)eii  were  assembled  round  the  fastidious  board  of  Lepi- 
dus. 

*'So  Glaucus  denies  his  crime  to  the  last?"  said  Clodius. 

"Yes;  but  the  testimony  of  Arbaces  w^as  convincing;  he  saw 
the  blow  given,"  answered  Lepidus 

"What  could  have  l)een  tlie  cause?" 

"  Why,  tlie  priest  w^as  a  gloomy  and  sullen  fellow.    He  proba- 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII  23^ 

bly  rated  Glaiicus  soundly  about  his  gay  life  and  gaming  habits, 
and  ultimately  swore  he  Avould  not  consent  to  his  marriage  with 
loue.  High  words  arose;  Glaucus  seems  to  have  been  full  of  the 
passionate  god,  and  struck  in  sudden  exasperation.  The  excite- 
ment of  wine,  the  exasperation  of  abrupt  remorse,  brought  on 
the  delirium  under  which  lie  suffered  for  some  days;  and  I  can 
readily  imagine,  poor  fellow!  that,  yet  confused  by  that  delirium, 
he  is  even  now  unconscious  of  the  crime  he  committed!  Such,  at 
least,  is  the  shrewd  conjecture  of  Arbaces,  who  seems  to  have 
been  most  kind  and  forbearmg  in  his  testimony." 

"Yes;  he  has  made  himself  generally  popular  by  it.  But  in 
consideration  of  these  extenuating  circumstances,  the  Senate 
should  have  relaxed  the  sentence." 

"  And  they  would  have  done  so,  but  for  the  people;  but  they 
were  outrageous.  The  priest  bad  spared  no  pains  to  excite  them; 
and  they  imagined — the  ferocious  brutes! — because  Glaucus  was 
a  rich  man  and  a  gentleman,  that  he  was  likely  to  escape;  and 
therefore  they  were  inveterate  against  him,  and  doubly  resolved 
upon  his  sentence.  It  seems,  by  some  accident  or  other,  tliat  he 
was  never  formally  enrolled  as  a  Roman  citizen ;  and  thus  the 
Senate  is  deprived  of  the  power  to  resist  the  people,  though,  after 
all,  there  was  but  a  maiority  of  three  against  him.  Ho!  tiie 
Chian!" 

"He  looks  sadly  altered;  but  how  composed  and  fearless!" 

"  Ay,  we  shall  see  if  Ms  firmness  will  last  over  to-morrow.  But 
what  merit  in  courage,  when  that  atheistical  hound,  Ohnthus, 
manifested  the  same?" 

"  The  blasphemer!  Yes,"  said  Lepidus,  with  pious  wrath,  "no 
wonder  that  one  of  the  decurions  was,  but  two  days  ago,  struck 
by  lightning  in  a  serene  sky.  The  gods  feel  vengeance  against 
Pompeii  while  the  vile  desecrator  is  alive  within  its  w^alls." 

"  Yet  so  lenient  was  the  Senate,  that  had  he  but  expressed  his 
penitence;  and  scattered  a  few  grains  of  incense  on  the  altar  of 
Cybele,  he  would  have  been  let  off.  I  doubt  whether  these  Naza- 
renes,  had  they  the  state  religion,  would  be  as  tolerant  to  us,  sup- 
posing we  had  kicked  down  the  image  of  theii"  Deity,  blasphemed 
their  rites,  and  denied  their  faith." 

"  They  give  Glaucus  one  chance,  in  consideration  of  the  circum- 
stances; they  allow  him,  against  the  lion,  the  use  of  the  same 
stilus  wherewith  he  smote  the  priest." 

"  Hast  thou  seen  the  lion?  hast  thou  looked  at  his  teeth  and 
fangs,  and  wilt  thou  call  tJiat  a  chance?  Why,  sw^ord  and  bucklei 
would  be  mere  reed  and  papyrus  against  the  rush  of  the  mighty 
beast!  No,  I  tliink  the  true  mercy  has  been,  not  to  leave  him 
long  in  suspense;  and  it  was  therefore  fortunate  for  him  that  our 
benign  laws  are  slow^  to  pronotmce,  but  swift  to  execute;  and 
that  the  games  of  the  ampliitheater  had  been,  by  a  sort  of  pro- 
vidence, so  long  fixed  for  to-morrow.  He  who  awaits  death,  dies 
twice." 

*  As  for  the  Atheist,"  said  Clodius,  "  he  is  to  cope  with  the  grim 
tiger  naked-handed.  Well,  these  combats  are  past  betting  oru 
Who  will  take  the  odds?" 

A  peal  of  laughter  announced  the  ridicule  of  the  questioa; 


240  TBE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

*'  Poor  Clodiusl"  said  the  host;  **  to  lose  a  friend  is  something; 
but  to  find  no  one  to  bet  on  the  chance  of  his  escape  is  a  worse 
misfortune  to  thee." 

"  Why,  it  is  provoking;  it  would  have  been  some  consolation 
to  him  and  to  me  to  think  he  was  useful  to  the  last." 

'*  The  people,"  said  the  gTave  Pansa,  *'  are  all  delighted  with  the 
result.  They  were  so  much  afraid  the  sports  at  the  amphitheater 
would  go  off  without  a  criminal  for  the  beasts;  and  now,  to  get 
two  .^i(ch  criminals,  is  indeed  a  joy  for  the  poor  fellowsl  They 
•work  hard;  they  ought  to  have  some  amuseme^it." 

•'There  speaks  the  popular  Pansa,  who  never  moves  without  a 
string  of  clients  as  long  as  an  Indian  triumph.  He  is  alw^ays  prat- 
ing about  the  people.   Gods!  he  will  end  by  being  a  Gracchus!" 

"  Certainly  I  am  no  insolent  patrician,"  said  Pansa,  with  a 
generous  air. 

"Well,"  observed  Lepidus,  "it  w^ould  have  been  assuredly 
dangerous  to  have  been  merciful  at  the  eve  of  a  beast-fight.  If 
ever  I,  though  a  Roman  l)red  and  born,  come  to  be  tried,  pray 
Jupiter  there  may  either  be  no  beasts  in  the  vivaria^  or  plenty  of 
criminals  in  the  jail." 

"And  pray,"  said  one  of  the  party,  "what  has  become  of  the 
poor  girl  whom  Glaucus  was  to  have  manied?  A  widow  without 
having  been  a  bride — that  is  hard." 

"Oh,"  returned  Clodius,  "she  is  safe  under  the  protection  of 
her  guardian,  Arbacos.  It  was  natural  she  should  go  to  him 
when  she  had  lost  both  lovei*  and  brother." 

"By  sweet  Venus,  Glaucus  was  fortunate  among  the  woment 
The  say  the  rich  Julia  was  in  love  w-ith  him." 

"  A  mere  fable,  my  friend,"  said  Clodius,  coxcombically;  "  I 
was  with  her  to-day.  If  any  feeling  of  the  sort  she  ever  conceiv- 
ed, I  flatter  myself  that  /have  consoled  her." 

"Hush,  gentlemen!"  said  Pansa,  "do  you  not  know  that 
Clodius  is  employed  at  the  house  of  Diomed  in  blowing  hard  at 
the  torch?  It  begins  to  burn,  and  will  soon  shine  bright  on  the 
shrine  of  Hymen." 

"Is  it  so?"  said  Lepidus.  "  What!  Clodius  become  a  married 
man?— Fie!" 

"Never  fear,"  answered  Clodius;  " old  Diomed  is  delighted  at 
the  notion  of  marrying  his  daughter  to  a  nobleman,  and  will 
come  down  largely  with  the  sesterces.  You  will  see  that  I  shall 
not  lock  them  up  in  the  atrium.  It  will  be  a  white  day  for  his 
jolly  friends,  when  Clodius  marries  an  heii*ess." 

"Say  you  so?"  cried  Lepidus;  "come,  then,  a  full  cup  to  the 
health  of  the  fair  Julia!" 

While  such  was  tho  conversation — one  not  discordant  to  the 
tone  of  mind  common  among  the  dissipated  of  that  day,  and 
which  might  perhaps,  a  century  ago,  have  found  an  echo  in  the 
looser  circles  of  Paris — while  such,  I  say,  was  the  conversation 
in  the  gaudy  triclinium  of  Lepidus,  far  different  the  scene  which 
Bcowlea  before  the  young  Athenian. 

After  his  condemnation,  Glaucus  was  admitted  no  more  to  the 
gentle  guardianship  of  Sallust,  the  only  friend  of  his  distress.  He 
was  led  along  the  forum  till  the  guards  stopped  at  a  small  door 


mE  LAST  DAYS  OP  POMPEII.  241 

by  the  side  of  the  temple  of  Jupiter.  You  may  seethe  place  still. 
The  door  opened  in  the  center  in  a  somewhat  singular  fashion, 
revolving  round  on  its  liinges,  as  it  were,  hke  a  modern  turnstile, 
so  as  only  to  leave  half  the  threshold  open  at  the  same  time. 
Through  this  narrow  aperture  they  thrust  the  prisoner,  placed 
before  him  a  loaf  and  a  pitcher  of  water,  and  left  him  to  dark- 
ness, and,  as  he  thought,  to  solitude.  So  sudden  had  been  that 
revolution  of  fortune  wliich  had  prostrated  him  from  the  palmy 
hight  of  youthful  pleasure  and  successful  love  to  the  lowest 
abyss  of  ignominy,  and  the  horror  of  a  most  bloody  death,  that 
he  could  scarcely  convince  himself  that  he  was  not  held  in  the 
meshes  of  some  fearful  dream.  His  elastic  and  glorious  frame 
had  triumphed  over  a  potion,  the  greater  part  of  which  he  had 
fortunately  not  drained.  He  had  recovered  sense  and  conscious- 
ness, but  still  a  dim  and  misty  depression  clung  to  his  nerves  and 
darkened  his  mind.  His  natural  courage,  and  the  Greek  nohihty 
of  pride,  enabled  him  to  vanquish  all  mibecoming  apprehension, 
and  in  the  judgment-court,  to  face  his  awful  lot  with  a  steady 
mien  and  unquailing  eye.  But  the  consciousness  of  mnocence 
scarcely  sufficed  to  support  him  when  the  gaze  of  men  no  longer 
excited  his  haughty  valor,  and  he  w-as  left  to  lonelmess  and 
silence.  He  felt  the  damps  of  the  dungeon  smk  chillingly  into 
his  enfeebled  frame.  ^      ,    ,        i     -,    ^  -,  '^^ 

He— the  fastidious, the  luxurious,the  refined— he  who  had  hith- 
erto braved  no  hardship  and  known  no  sorrow.  Beautiful  bird 
that  he  was!  whv  had  he  left  his  fair  and  sunny  cHme— the  oUve 
groves  of  his  native  hills— the  music  of  immemorial  streams? 
Why  had  he  wantoned  on  his  gUttering  plumage  amid  these 
harsh  and  ungenial  strangers,  dazzling  the  eyes  with  his  gorgeous 
hues,  charming  the  ear  wdth  his  bhthesome  song— thus  suddenly 
arrested— caged  in  darkness— a  victim  and  a  prey— his  gay  flights 
forever  over — his  hymns  of  gladness  forever  stilled!  The  poor 
Athenian!  his  very  faults  the  exuberance  of  a  gentle  and  joyous 
nature,  how  little  had  his  past  career  fitted  him  for  the  trials  he 
was  destined  to  undergo!  The  hoots  of  the  mob,  amid  whose 
plaudits  he  had  so  often  guided  his  graceful  car  and  bounding 
steeds,  still  rang  gratingly  in  his  ear.  The  cold  and  stony  faces 
of  his  former  friends  (the  co-mates  of  his  merry  revels)  still  rose 
before  his  eye.  None  now  were  by  to  soothe,  to  sustain,  the  ad- 
mired, the  adulated  stranger.  These  walls  opened  but  on  the 
dread  arena  of  a  violent  and  shameful  death.  And  lone!  of  her, 
too,  he  had  heard  naught;  no  encouraging  word,  no  pitying  mes- 
sage; she,  too,  had  forsaken  him;  she  believed  him  guilty— and  of 
what  crime?— the  murder  of  a  brother!  'He  ground  his 
teeth— he  groaned  aloud— and  ever  and  anon  a  sharp  fear 
shot  across  him.  In  that  fell  and  fierce  dehrium  which  haxi  so 
unaccountably  seized  his  soul,  which  had  so  ravaged  the  disor- 
dered brain,  might  he  not,  indeed,  unknowing  to  himself ,  have 
committed  the  crime  of  which  he  was  accused?  Yet,  as  the 
thought  flashed  upon  him,  it  was  suddenly  checked:  for,  amid 
all  the  darkness  of  the  past,  he  thought  distinctly  to  recall  the 
dim  grove  of  Cybele,  the  upward  face  of  the  pale  dead,  the 
pause  that  he  made  beside  the  corpse,  and  the  sudden  shock  that 


243  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIL 

felled  him  to  the  eartli.  He  felt  convinced  of  his  innocence? 
and  yet  who,  to  the  latest  time,  long  after  liis  mangled  remains 
were  mingled  with  the  elements,  would  believe  him  guiltless  or 
uphold  his  fame?  As  he  recalled  his  interview  witli  Arbaces, 
and  the  cause  of  revenge  which  liad  been  excited  in  the  heart  of 
that  dark  and  fearful  man,  lie  could  not  but  believe  that  he  wjia 
the  victim  of  some  deep-laid  and  mysterious  snare — the  clew  and 
train  of  which  he  was  lost  in  attempting  to  discover:  and  lone 
— Arbaces  loved  her — might  his  rival's  success  be  founded  upon 
his  ruin?  Tliat  thought  cut  him  more  deeply  than  all;  and  his 
noble  heart  was  more  stung  by  jealousy  than  appalled  by  fear. 
Again  he  groaned  aloud. 

A  voice  from  the  recess  of  the  darkness  answered  that  burst  of 
anguish.  "  Who  [it  said]  is  my  companion  in  this  awful  hour? 
Athenian  Glaucus,  is  it  thouV" 

"So,  indeed,  they  called  me  in  mine  hour  of  fortune:  they 
m.ay  have  other  names  for  me  now.    And  thy  name,  stranger?'^ 

"  Is  Olinthus,  thy  co-mate  in  the  i:)rison  as  the  trial." 

*'  What,  he  whom  they  call  the  Atheist?  Is  it  the  injustice  of 
men  that  hath  taught  thee  to  deny  the  providence  of  the  gods?" 

*'  Alas!"  answered  Olinthus:  "  thou,  not  I,  art  the  true  Atheist^ 
for  thou  deniest  the  sole  God,  the  Unknown  one,  to  whom  thy 
Athenian  fathers  erected  an  altar.  It  is  in  this  hour  that  I  know 
my  God.  He  is  with  me  in  the  dungeon;  his  smile  penetrates 
the  darkness;  on  the  eve  of  death  my  heart  whispers 
immortality,  and  earth  recedes  from  me  but  to  bring  the  weary 
soul  nearer  unto  heaven." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Glaucus,  abruptly,  *'  did  I  not  hear  thy  name 
coupled  with  that  of  Apaecides  in  my  trial?  Dost  thou  beUeve 
me  guilty?" 

•'  God  alone  reads  the  heart!  but  my  suspicion  rested  not  upon 
thee." 

"  On  whom,  then?" 

*'  Thy  accuser,  Arbaces." 

**  Ha!  thou  cheerest  me:  and  wherefore?" 

**  Because  I  know  the  man's  evil  breast,  and  he  had  cause  to 
fear  him  who  is  now  dead." 

With  that,  Olinthus  proceeded  to  inform  Glaucus  of  those 
details,  wliich  the  reader  already  knows,  the  conversion  of 
Apaecides,  the  plan  they  had  proposed  for  the  detection  of  the 
impostures  of  the  Egyptian  priestcraft,  and  of  the  seductions 
practiced  by  Arbaces  upon  the  youthful  weakness  of  the 
proselyte.  "  Therefore,*'  concluded  Olinthus,  '*  had  the  deceased 
encountered  Arbaces,  reviled  his  treasons,  and  threatened 
detection,  the  place,  the  hour,  might  have  favored  the  wrath  of 
the  Egyptian,  and  passion  and  craft  alike  dictated  the  fatal 
blow." 

"  It  must  have  been  so!"  cried  Glaucus,  joyfully.  "  I  am 
happy." 

"  Yet  what,  O  unfortunate!  avails  to  thee  now  the  discovery' 
Thou  art  condemned  and  fated;  and  in  thine  innocence  thou  wilt 
perish." 

**But  I  shall  know  myself  guiltless;  and  in  mymystexioud 


TEE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIT.  243 

madness  I  had  fearful,  though  momentary,  doubts.  Yet  tell  me, 
man  of  a  strange  creed,  thiukest  thou  that,  for  small  errors,  or 
for  ancestral  faults,  we  are  forever  abandoned  and  accursed  by 
the  powers  above,  whatever  name  thou  allottest  to  them?" 

"God  is  just,  and  abandoas  not  his  creatures  for  their  mere 
human  frailty.  God  is  merciful,  and  cui'ses  none  but  the  wicked 
who  repent  not."' 

"Yet  it  seemeth  to  me  as  if,  in  the  divijie  anger,  I  had  been 
smitten  by  a  sudtlen  madness,  a  supernatural  and  solemn  frenzy, 
wrought  not  by  human  means." 

"  There  are  demons  on  earth,"  answered  the  Nazarene,  f ear- 
full  j%  "as  well  as  there  are  God  and  His  Son  in  Heaven;  and 
since  thou  acknowledgest  not  the  last,  the  fii-st  may  have  had 
power  over  thee." 

Glaucus  did  not  reply,  and  there  was  a  silence  for  some  minutes. 
At  length  the  Athenian  said,  in  a  changed,  and  soft,  and  half- 
hesitating  voice,  ' '  Christian,  behevest  thou,  among  the  doctrines 
of  thy  creed,  that  the  dead  live  again  ;  that  they  who  have  loved 
here  are  united  hereafter  ;  that  beyond  the  grave  our  good  name 
shines  pure  from  the  mortal  mists  that  mi  justly  dim  it  in  the 
gross-eyed  world,  and  that  the  streams  which  are  divided  by  the 
desert  and  the  rock  meet  in  the  solemn  Hades,  and  flow  once 
more  into  one  ?  " 

"Believe  I  that,  O  Athenian?  No,  I  do  not  believe  ;  I  hnow! 
and  it  is  that  beautiful  and  blessed  assurance  which  supports  me 
now.  O  Cyllene  I"  continued  Olinthus,  passionately,  "bride  of 
my  heart !  torn  from  me  in  the  first  mouth  of  our  nuptials,  shall 
I  not  see  thee  yet,  and  ere  many  days  be  past  ?  Welcome,  wel- 
come death,  that  will  bring  me  to  Heaven  and  thee." 

There  was  something  in  this  sudden  burst  of  human  affection 
which  struck  a  kindred  chord  in  the  soul  of  the  Greek.  He  felt, 
for  the  first  time,  a  sympathy  greater  than  mere  affection  be- 
tween him  and  his  companion.  He  crept  nearer  toward  Olin- 
thus ;  for  the  Italians,  fierce  in  some  points,  were  not  unneces- 
sarily cruel  in  others  :  they  spared  the  separate  cell  and  the  super- 
fluous chain,  and  allowed  the  victims  of  the  arena  the  sad  com- 
fort of  such  freedom  and  such  companionship  as  the  prison  would 
afford. 

"Yes,"  continued  the  Christian  with  holy  fervor,  "the  im- 
mortality of  the  soul — the  resurrection — the  reunion  of  the  dead 
— is  the  great  principle  of  our  creed — the  great  truth  a  God 
suffered  death  itself  to  attest  and  proclaim.  No  fabled  Elysium 
— no  poetic  Orcus — but  a  pure  and  radiant  heritage  of  Heaven 
itself,  is  the  portion  of  the  good." 

I' Tell  me,  then,  thy  doctrines,  and  expound  to  me  thy  hopes,** 
said  Glaucus,  earnestly. 

Olinthus  was  not  slow  to  obey  that  prayer  ;  and  there — as  often- 
times in  the  early  ages  of  the  Christian  creed— it  was  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  dungeon,  and  over  the  approach  of  death,  that  th© 
dawning  Gospel  shed  its  soft  and  consecrating  rays. 


S44  THIS  tA8T  DAYS  OF  POMPEII, 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

A  CHANCE  FOR  GLAUCUS. 

The  hours  passed  in  lingering  torture  over  the  head  of  Nydia 
from  the  time  in  ^vllich  she  had  been  replaced  in  her  cell. 

Sosia,  as  if  afraid  he  should  be  again  outwitted,  had  refrained 
from  visiting  her  until  late  in  the  morning  of  the  following  day, 
and  then  ho  but  thrust  in  the  periodical  basket  of  food  and  wine, 
and  hastily  reclosed  the  door.  That  day  rolled  on,  and  Nydia 
felt  herself  pent — barred — inexorably  confined  when  that  day 
was  the  judgment  day  of  Glaucus,  and  -when  her  release  would 
have  saved  him!  Yet  knowing,  almost  impossible  as  seemed  her 
escape,  that  the  sole  chance  for  the  life  of  Glaucus  rested  on  her, 
this  young  girl,  frail,  passionate,  and  acutely. susceptible  as  she 
was,  resolved  not  to  give  way  to  a  despair  that  would  disable  her 
from  seizing  whatever  oi3portunity  might  occur.  She  kept  her 
senses  whenever,  beneath  the  whirl  of  intolerable  thought,  they 
reeled  and  tottered;  nay,  she  took  food  and  wine  that  she  migiit 
sustain  her  strength,  that  she  might  be  prepared! 
f  She  revolved  scheme  after  scheme  of  escape,  and  was  forced  to 
dismiss  aU.  Yet  Sosia  was  her  only  hope,  the  only  instrument 
with  which  she  could  tamper.  He  had  been  superstitious  in  the 
desne  of  ascertaining  whether  he  could  eventually  purchase  his 
freedom.  Blessed  gods!  might  lie  not  be  won  by  the  bribe  of 
freedom  liimself?  Her  slender  arms  were  covered  with  bracelets, 
the  presents  of  lone;  and  on  her  neck  she  yet  wore  that  very 
chain  which,  it  may  be  remembered,  had  occasioned  her  jealous 
quarrel  with  Glaucus,  and  which  she  had  afterward  promised 
vainly  to  wear  forever.  She  waited  burningly  till  Sosia  should 
again  ax)pear;  but  as  hour  after  hour  had  passed,  and  he  came 
not,  she  grew  impatient.  Every  nerve  beat  with  fever;  she  could 
endure  the  solitude  no  longer — she  gi'oaned,  she  shrieked  aloud — 
she  beat  iierself  against  tiie  door.  Her  cries  echoed  along  the 
hall,  and  Sosia,  in  peevish  anger,  hastened  to  see  what  was  the 
matter,  and  silence  his  prisoner  if  possible. 

"Ho!  ho!  wliat  is  thisy*' said  he,  surlily.  "Young  slave,  if 
thou  screamest  out  thus,  we  must  gag  thee  again.  My  shoulders 
will  smart  for  it  if  thou  art  heard  by  my  master." 

"Kind  Sosia,  chide  me  not— I  cannot  endure  to  be  so  long 
alone,"  answered  Nydia;  "the  solitude  appals  me.  Sit  with  me, 
I  pray,  a  little  while.  Nay,  fear  not  that  1  should  attemjit  to  es- 
cape; place  tliy  seat  before  the  door.  Keep  thine  eye  on  me — I 
will  not  stir  from  tliis  spot." 

Sosia,  who  was  a  considerable  gossip  liimself .  was  moved  by 
this  address.  He  pitied  one  wiio  Juid  nobody  to  talk  with — it  was 
his  case  too;  he  pitied— and  resolved  to  relieve  A  msc//.  He  took 
the  liint  of  Nydia,  placed  a  stool  before  the  door,  leaned  his  back 
against  it,  and  replied. 

"  I  am  sure  I  do  not  wisli  to  be  churlish;  and  so  far  as  a  little 
innocent  chat  goes,  I  liavo  no  objection  to  indulge  you.  But 
mind,  no  tricks — no  n\ore  conjuring!'' 

"  No,  no;  tell  me,  dear  Soiiia,  what  is  the  hour?'*         ^ 


TBE  LAST  t)A  TS  OF  POMPEtT,  245 

*'It  is  already  evening— the  goats  are  going  home." 

**  O  gods!  how  went  the  trial?" 

*' Both  condemned!*' 

Nydia  repressed  the  shriek.  "  Well— weU,  I  thought  it  would 
be  so.    When  do  they  suffer?" 

*'  To-morrow,  in  the  amphitheater.  If  it  were  not  for  thee, 
little  wretch!  I  should  be  allowed  to  go  with  the  rest  and  see  it." 

Nydia  leaned  back  for  some  moments.  Nature  could  endure 
no  more— she  had  fainted  away.  But  Sosia  did  not  perceive  it, 
for  it  was  the  dusk  of  eve,  and  he  was  fuU  of  his  own  privations. 
He  went  on  lamenting  the  loss  of  so  deUghtful  a  show,  and  ac- 
cusing the  injustice  of  Arbaces  for  singling  him  out  from  all  his 
fellows  to  be  converted  into  a  jailer;  and  ere  he  had  half  finished, 
Nydia,  with  a  deep  sigh,  recovered  the  sense  of  life. 

"Thou  sighest,  blind  one,  at  my  loss!  Well,  that  is  some  cona- 
fort.  So  long  as  you  acknowledge  how  much  you  cost  me,  I  will 
endeavor  not  to  grumble.  It  is  hard  to  be  ill-treated,  and  yet  not 
pitied."  ,  ^,  , 

"  Sosia,  how  much  dost  thou  requu-e  to  make  up  the  purchase 
of  thy  freedom?"' 

"  How  much?    Why,  about  two  thousand  sesterces. 

''The  gods  be  praised!  not  more?  Seest  thou  these  bracelets 
and  tliis  chain?  They  are  well  worth  double  that  sum.  I  will 
give  them  thee  if "  . 

"  Tempt  me  not;  I  cannot  release  thee,  Arbaces  is  a  severe  and 
awful  master.  Who  knows  but  I  might  feed  the  fishes  of  the 
Sarnus?  Alas! -all  the  sesterces  in  the  world  would  not  buy  me 
back  into  life.     Better  a  live  dog  than  a  dead  lion." 

"Sosia,  thy  freedom!  Think  weU!  If  thou  will  let  me  out, 
only  for  one  little  hour;  let  me  out  at  midnight;  I  will  return  ere 
to-morrow's  dawn;  nay,  thou  canst  go  with  me." 

"No,"saidSosia,  sturdily,  "a  slave  once  disobeyed  Arbaces, 
andhe  was  never  more  heard  of." 

"But  the  law  gives  a  master  no  power  over  the  lire  or  a 

"  The  law  is  very  obliging,  but  more  polite  than  efficient.  I 
kno\r  that  Arbaces  always  gets  the  law  on  his  side.  ^^  Besides,  if 
I  am  once  dead,  what  law  can  bring  me  to  life  again! 

Nydia  wrung  her  hands.  "  Is  there  no  hope  then?  said  she, 
convulsively. 

"  None  of  escape,  till  Arbaces  gives  the  word. 

"  Well,-then,"  said  Nvdia,  quickly,  "  thou  wilt  not,  at  least,  re- 
fuse to  take  a  letter  for  me;  thy  master  cannot  kill  thee  for 
that." 

"  To  whom?" 

"  The  praetor."  ,  ,^ 

"  To  a  magistrate?  No— not  I.  I  should  be  made  a  witness  in 
court,  for  what  I  know:  and  the  way  they  cross-examme  the 
slave  is  by  the  torture." 

"  Pardon;  I  meant  not  the  prsetor;  it  was  a  word  that  escaped 
me  unawares;  I  meant  another  person — the  gay  Sallust. 

"  Oh  I  and  what  want  you  ^^'ith  Mm?" 

*'  Glaucus  was  my  master;  he  purchased  me  from  a  cniel  lord. 


^6  TBE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEtL 

He  alone  has  been  kind  to  me.  lie  is  to  die.  I  shall  never  live 
happily  if  I  cannot  in  his  hour  of  trial  and  doom,  let  liim  know- 
that  one  heart  is  grateful  to  him.  Sallust  is  his  friend;  he  will 
convey  my  message." 

"  I  am  sure  he  will  do  no  such  thing.  Glaucus  will  have 
enough  to  think  of  between  this  and  to-morrow,  without 
troubling  his  liead  about  a  blind  girl." 

**Man,"  said  Nydia,  rising,  "wilt  thou  become  free?  Thou 
hast  the  offer  in  thy  power;  to-morrow  it  will  be  too  late.  Never 
was  freedom  more  cheaply  purchased.  Thou  canst  easily  and 
unmissed  leave  home;  less  than  half  an  hour  will  suffice  for 
thine  absence.     And  for  such  a  trifle  wilt  thou  refuse  liberty?" 

Sosia  was  greatly  moved.  It  was  true  that  the  request  was 
remarkably  silly;  but  what  was  that  to  him?  So  much  the  better. 
He  could  lock  the  door  on  Nydia,  and,  if  Arbaces  should  leam 
his  absence,  the  offense  was  venial,  and  would  merit  but  a 
reprimand.  Yet,  should  Nydia's  letter  contain  something  more 
than  what  she  had  said;  should  it  speak  of  her  imprisonment,  as 
he  shrewdly  conjectured  it  ^vould  do;  what  then?  It  need  never 
be  known  to  Arbaces  that  lie  had  carried  the  letter.  At  the 
worst  the  bribe  was  enormous;  the  risk  light,  the  temptation 
irresistible.  He  hesitated  no  longer;  he  assented  to  the  pro- 
posal. 

"  Give  me  the  trinkets,  and  I  will  take  the  letter.  Yet  stay — 
thou  art  a  slave — thou  hast  no  right  to  these  ornaments — they 
are  thy  masters." 

"  They  were  gifts  of  Glaucus;  he  is  my  master.  What  chance 
hath  he  to  claim  them?  Who  else  will  know  they  are  in  my 
possession?" 

"  Enough — I  will  bring  thee  the  papyrus." 

**  No,  not  papyiiis — a  tablet  of  wax  and  a  stilus." 

Nydia,  as  the  reader  will  have  seen,  was  born  of  gentle 
parents.  They  had  done  all  to  lighten  her  calamity,  and  her 
quick  intellect  seconded  their  exertions.  Despite  her  blindness, 
she  had  therefore  acquired  in  childhood,  though  imperfectly, 
the  art  to  write  with  the  sharp  stilus  upon  waxen  tablets,  in 
whicli  lier  exquisite  sense  of  touch  came  to  her  aid.  When  the 
tablets  were  brought  to  her,  she  thus  painfully  traced  some 
words  in  Greek,  the  language  of  her  childhood;  and  which 
every  Italian  of  the  higher  ranks  w\as  then  supposed  to  know. 
She  carefully  wound  round  the  epistle  the  protecting  thread; 
and  covered  its  knot  with  wax;  and  ere  slie  placed  it  in  the  hands 
of  Sosia,  she  thus  addressed  him: 

"Sosia,  lam  blind  and  in  prison.  Thou  mayst  think  to  de- 
ceive me — thou  mayst  ])retend  only  to  take  the  letter  to  Sallust 
— thou  mayst  not  fultil  thy  charge:  but  here  I  solemnly  dedi- 
cate thy  liead  to  vengeance,  thy  soul  to  tlie  infernal  powers,  if 
tliou  wrongest  thy  trust;  and  I  call  upon  thee  to  place  thy  right 
hand  of  faith  in  mine,  and  repeat  after  me  these  %vords:  '  By 
the  giound  on  which  we  stand — by  the  elements  wdiich  contain 
life  and  can  ciu'se  life — l)y  Orcus,  the  all-avenging — by  the 
Olympian  Juintor,  tiie  all-seeing — I  swear  that  I  will  honestly 
discharge  my  trust,  and  faithfully  deliver  into  the  hands  of  Sal- 


^HE  LAST  BAYS  OF  POMPEII.  247 

lust  this  letter!  And  if  I  perjure  myself  in  this  oath,  may  the 
full  curses  of  heaven  and  hell  be  wreaked  upon  me!'  Enough! 
— I  trust  thee — take  thy  reward.  It  is  already  dark — depart  at 
once." 

"Thou  art  a  strange  girl,  and  thou  hast  frightened  me  ter- 
ribly; but  it  is  all  very  natural:  and  if  Sallust  is  to  be  found,  I 
give  him  this  letter  as  I  have  sworn.  By  my  faith,  I  may  have 
my  little  peccadilloes!  but  perjury — no!  I  leave  that  to  my  bet- 
ters." 

With  this  Sosia  withdrew,  carefully  passing  the  heavy  bolt 
athwart  Nydia's  door — carefully  locking  its  wards;  and,  hang- 
ing the  key  to  his  girdle,  he  retired  to  his  own  den,  enveloped 
himself  from  head  to  foot  in  a  huge  disguising  cloak,  and  sUp^ed 
out  by  the  back  way  imdisturbed  and  unseen. 

The  streets  were  still  and  empty.  He  soon  gained  the  house 
of  Sallust.  The  porter  bade  him*  leave  his  letter  and  be  gone; 
for  Sallust  was  so  grieved  at  the  condemnation  of  Glaucus  that 
he  could  not  on  any  account  be  disturbed. 

"  Nevertheless,  I  have  sworn  to  give  this  letter  into  his  own 
hands — do  so  I  must!"  And  Sosia,  well  knowing  by  experience 
that  Cerberus  loves  a  sop,  thrust  some '  half  a  dozen  sesterces 
into  the  hand  of  the  porter. 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  latter,  relenting,  "you  may  enter  if 
you  will;  but  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Sallust  is  drinking  himself 
out  of  his  grief.  It  is  his  way  when  anytbing  disturbs  him.  He 
orders  a  capital  supper,  the  best  wine,  and  does  not  give  over 
till  everything  else  is  out  of  his  head — but  the  liquor." 

"  An  excellent  plan — excellent!  Ah,  what  it  is  to  be  rich!  If 
I  were  Sallust,  I  would  have  some  gi'ief  or  another  every  day. 
But  just  say  a  kind  word  for  me  with  the  atriensis — I  see  him 
coming." 

Sallust  was  too  sad  to  receive  the  company;  he  was  too  sad, 
also,  to  drink  alone:  so,  as  was  his  wont,  he  admitted  his  favor- 
ite freedman  to  liis  entertainment,  and  a  stranger  banquet  never 
was  held.  For  ever  and  anon,  the  kind-hearted  epicure  sighed, 
whimpered,  wept  outright,  and  then  turned  with  double  zest  to 
some  new  dish  or  his  re-filled  goblet. 

"  My  good  fellow,"  said  he  to  his  companion,  "  it  was  a  most 
awful  judgment — heigho!— it  is  not  bad  that  kid,  eh?  Poor,  dear 
Glaucus! — what  a  jaw  the  lion  has,  too!  Ah,  ah,  ah!" 

And  Sallust  sobbed  loudly;  the  fit  was  stopped  by  a  counterac- 
tion of  hiccups. 

"  Take  a  cup  of  wine,"  said  the  freedman. 

"  A  thought  too  cold;  but  then  how  cold  Glaucus  must  be! 
Shut  up  the  house  to-morrow;  not  a  slave  shall  stir  forth;  none 
of  my  people  shall  honor  that  cursed  arena— No.  no!" 

"  Taste  the  Falernian;  your  grief  distracts  you.  By  the  gods 
it  does — a  piece  of  that  cheesecake." 

It  was  at  this  auspicious  moment  that  Sosia  was  admitted  to 
the  presence  of  the  disconsolate  carouser. 

"  Ho!  whatart  thou?" 

<'  Merely  a  messenger  to  Sallust.    I  ^ive  him  this  billet  frpm  ^ 


248  TEE  LAST  DA  78  OF  POMPEII, 

young  female,  fhere  is  no  answer  that  I  know  of.  May  I  with* 
draw?" 

Thus  paid  the  discreet  Sosia,  keeping  his  face  muffled  in  Ids 
cloak,  and  speaking  in  a  feigned  voice,  so  that  he  might  not  here- 
after be  recognized. 

"  By  the  gods — a  pimp!  Unfeeling  wretch  I  do  you  not  sjee  my 
sorrows?    Go!  and  the  curses  of  Pandarus  w4th  you!" 

Sosia  lost  not  a  moment  in  retiring. 

"  Will  you  read  the  letter,  Sallust?"  said  the  freedman. 

**  Letter! — which  letter?"  said  the  epicure,  reeling,  for  he  began 
to  see  double..  "  A  curse  on  the«e  wenches,  say  I!  Am  I  a  man 
to  think  of  {hiccup)  pleasure  when — when  my  friend  is  going  to 
be  eat  up?" 

"  Eat  another  tartlet." 

**  No,  no!    My  grief  chokes  me!" 

"Take  him  to  bed,"  said  the  freedman;  and,  Sallust's  head 
now  declining  fairly  on  his  breast,  they  bore  him  off  to  his  cubic- 
ulum,  still  muttering  lamentations  for  Glaucus,  and  impreca- 
tions on  the  unfeeling  overtures  of  ladies  of  pleasure. 

"  Meanwhile  Sosia  strode  indignantly  homeward.  "  Pimp,  in- 
deed!" quoth  he  to  himself.  "Pimp!  a  scurvy-tongued  fellow 
tliat  Sallust!  Had  I  been  called  knave,  or  thief,  I  could  have 
forgiven  it;  but  pimp!  Faugh!  there  is  something  in  the  word 
which  the  toughest  stomach  in  the  world  would  rise  against. 
A  knave  is  a  kuave  for  his  own  pleasm-e,  and  a  thief  a  thief  for  his 
own  profit;  and  there  is  something  honorable  and  philosophical 
in  being  a  rascal  for  one's  own  sake:  that  is  doing  things  upon 
principle — upon  a  gj-and  scale,  But  a  pimp  is  a  thing  that  defiles 
itself  for  another — a  pipkin  that  is  put  on  the  fire  for  another 
man's  pottage!  a  napkin,  that  every  guest  wipes  his  hands  upon! 
and  the  scullion  says,  '  by  your  leave,'  too.  A  pimp!  I  would 
rather  he  liad  called  me  parricide!  But  the  man  was  drunk, 
and  did  not  know  what  he  said:  and,  besides,  I  disguised  myself. 
Had  he  seen  it  had  been  Sosia  who  addressed  him,  it  would  have 
been  '  honest  Sosia!'  and,  '  worthy  man!'  I  warrant.  Neverthe- 
less, the  trinkets  have  been  won  easily — that's  some  comfort!  and 
O  goddess  Feronia!  I  shall  be  a  freedman  soon!  and  then  I  should 
like  to  see  who'll  call  mo  a  pimp!  unless,  indeed,  he  pay  me 
pretty  handsomely  for  it!" 

While  Sosia  was  soliloquizing  in  this  high-minded  and  gener- 
ous vein,  his  path  lay  along  a  narrow  lane  that  led  toward  the 
amphitheater  and  its  adjacent  palaces.  Suddenly,  as  he  turned 
a  sharp  corner  he  found  iiimseli  in  the  midst  of  a  considerable 
crowd.  Men,  women,  and  children,  all  were  hurrying  on,  laugh- 
ing, talking,  gesticulating;  and,  ere  he  was  aware  of  it,  the 
worthy  Sosia  was  borne  away  with  the  noisy  stream. 

"What  now?"  he  asked  of  his  nearest  neighbor,  a  young 
artificer;  "what  now?  Where  are  all  these  good  folks  throng- 
ing?   Does  any  rich  patron  give  away  alms  or  viands  to-night?" 

"  Not  so,  man — better  still,'' replied  the  artificer;  "the  noble 
Pansa — the  peo}.)le's  friend — has  granted  the  public  leave  to  see 
the  beasts  in  their  viatrln.  By  Hercules!  they  will  not  h^  seen 
eafely  by  some  persons  to-morrow  I" 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPELt  249 

♦'  'lis  a  pretty  sigbt,"  said  the  slave,  yielding  to  the  throng 
that  impelled  him  onward;  "  and  since  I  may  not  go  *)0  the  sports 
to-morrow,  I  may  as  well  take  a  peep  at  the  beasts  to-night." 

"  You  will  do  well,"  returned  his  new  acquaintance;  "  a  lion 
and  a  tiger  are  not  to  be  seen  at  Pompeii  every  day." 

The  crowd  had  now  entered  a  broken  and  wide  space  of 
ground,  on  wliich,  as  it  was  only  lighted  scantily  and  from  a 
distance,  the  press  became  dangerous  to  those  whose  Umbs  and 
shoulders  were  not  fitted  for  the  mob.  Nevertheless,  the 
women  especially— many  of  them  with  children  in  theu'  arms,  or 
even  at  the  breast— were  the  most  resolute  in  forcing  their  way; 
and  their  slmll  exclamations  of  complaint  or  objurgation  were 
heard  loud  above  the  more  jovial  and  masculine  voices.  Yet, 
amid  them  was  a  young  and  gu'lish  voice,  that  appeared  to  come 
from  one  too  happy  in  her  excitement  to  be  alive  to  the  incon- 
venience of  the  crowd. 

"Aha!"  cried  the  young  woman,  to  some  of  her  companions, 
**  I  always  told  you  so;  I  always  said  we  should  have  a  man  for 
the  lion;  and  now  we  have  one  for  the  tiger  tool  I  wish  to-mor- 
row were  come  I" 

Ho!  ho!  for  the  merry,  merry  show, 
With  a  forest  of  faces  in  every  row! 
Lo!  the  swordsmen,  bold  as  the  son  of  Alcmaena, 
Sweep,  side  by  side  o'er  the  hushed  arena. 
Talk  while  you  may,  you  will  hold  your  breath 
When  they  meet  in  the  grasp  of  the  glowing  deathl 
Tramp!  tramp!  how  gayly  they  go! 
Ho!  ho!  for  the  merry,  merry  show! 

*'A  jolly  girl!"  said  Sosia. 

*'  Yes,"  replied  the  young  artificer,  a  curly- headed,  handsome 
youth.  "Yes,"  replied  he,  enviously;  "  the  women  love  a  glad- 
iator. If  I  had  been  a  slave,  I  would  have  soon  found  my 
school-master  in  the  lanista!" 

"Would  you,  indeed?"  said  Sosia,  with  a  sneer.  *' People's 
notions  differ!" 

The  crowd  had  now  arrived  at  the  place  of  destination;  but  as^ 
the  cell  in  which  the  wild  beasts  were  confined  was  extremely 
small  and  narrow,  tenfold  more  vehement  than  it  hitherto  had 
been  was  the  rush  of  the  aspirants  to  obtain  admittance.  Two 
of  the  officers  of  the  amphitheater,  placed  at  the  entrance,  very 
wisely  mitigated  the  evil  by  dispensing  to  the  foremost  only  a 
limited  number  of  tickets  at  a  time,  and  admitting  no  new  visit- 
ors till  their  predecessors  had  sated  their  cmiosity.  Sosia,  who 
was  a  tolerably  stout  fellow,  and  not  troubled  with  any  remark- 
able scruples  of  diffidence  or  good-breeding,  contrived  to  be 
among  the  first  of  the  initiated. 

Separated  from  his  companion  the  artificer,  Sosia  found  him- 
self in  a  narrow  cell  of  oppressive  heat  and  atmosphere,  and 
lighted  by  several  rank  and  flaring  torches. 

The  animals,  usually  kept  in  different  vivaria,  or  dens^  ^&m 
now,  for  the  greater  entertainment  of  the  visitors,  placed  ia  one . 
but  equally  indeed  divided  from  each  other  by  stronjg  ca^es  pw 
tected  by  iron  bars. 


250  THE  LAST  DA  78  OF  POMPEH. 

There  they  were,  the  fell  ana  gilm  wanderers  of  the  desert, 
who  have  now  become  almost  the  i)rincipal  agents  of  tliis  story. 
The  lion,  who,  as  being  more  gentle  by  nature  than  liis  fellow- 
beast,  had  been  more  incited  to  ferocity  by  hunger,  stalked  rest- 
lessly and  fiercely  to  and  fro  his  narrow  confines;  his  eves  were 
lurid  with  rage  and  famine;  and  as,  every  now  and  then,  he 
paused  and  glared  arouud,  the  spectators  fearfully  pressed  back- 
ward and  drew  their  breath  more  quickly.  But  the  tiger  lay 
quiet  and  extended  at  full  length  in  his  cage,  and  only  by  au  oc- 
casional play  of  his  tail,  or  a  long,  impatient  yawn,  testified 
any  emotion  at  his  confinement,  or  at  the  crowd  which  honored 
him  with  their  presence. 

"  I  have  seen  no  fiercer  beast  than  yon  lion  even  in  the  amplii- 
theater  of  Rome,"  said  a  gigantic  and  sinewy  fellow  who  stood 
at  the  right  hand  of  Sosia. 

"  I  feel  humbled  when  I  look  at  his  limbs,"  replied  at  the  left 
of  Sosia  a  slighter  and  younger  filgure  with  his  arms  folded  on 
his  breast. 

The  slave  looked  first  at  one,  and  then  at  the  other.  ^'Virtus 
in  medio! — virtue  is  ever  in  the  middle!"  muttered  he  to  himself; 
"  a  goodly  neighborhood  for  thee,  Sosia— a  gladiator  on  each 
side!" 

"  That  is  well  said,  Lydon,"  returned  the  huger  gladiator;  **1 
feel  the  same." 

"And  to  think,"  observed  Lydon,  in  a  tone  of  deep  feeling,  *' to 
think  that  the  noble  Greek,  he  whom  we  saw  but  a  day  or  two 
since  before  us,  so  full  of  youth,  and  health,  and  joyousness,  is  to 
feast  you  monster!" 

"  Why  not?"  growled  Niger  savagely;  **  many  an  honest  gladi- 
ator has  been  compelled  to  a  like  combat  by  the  Emperor — why 
not  a  wealthy  murderer  by  the  law?" 

Lydon  sighed,  shi-ugged  his  shoulders,  and  remained  silent. 
Meanwhile  the  common  gazers  listened  with  staring  eyes  and 
lips  apart;  the  gladiators  were  objects  of  interest  as  well  as  the 
beasts — they  were  animals  of  the  same  species;  so  the  crowd 
glanced  from  one  to  the  other— tlie  men  and  the  brutes— whis- 
pering their  comments  and  anticipating  the  morrow. 

"Well!"  said  Lydon.  turning  away,  "  I  thank  the  gods  that 
it  is  not  the  lion  or  the  tiger  /  am  to  contend  with;  even  you, 
Niger,  are  a  gentler  combatant  than  they." 

"But  equally  dangerous,"  said  the  gladiator,  with  a  fierce 
laugh;  and  the  bystanders,  admiring  his  vast  limbs  and  fero- 
cious countenance,  lauglicd  too. 

"That's  as  it  may  be,  "answered  Lydon,  carelessly,  as  he  pressed 
through  the  throng  and  cpiitted  the  den. 

"  I  may  as  well  take  advantage  of  his  shoulders,"  thought 
the  prudent  Sosia,  hastening  to  follow  him;  "the  crowd  always 
give  way  to  a  gladiator,  so  I  will  keep  close  behind,  and  come  in 
for  a  share  of  his  consoquenco." 

The  son  of  Mcdon  strode  quickly  through  the  mot),  many  of 
whom  recognized  his  features  and  ])rotession. 

"  That  is  young  Lydou,  q,  brave  fellow;  he  fights  to-moiTOW," 
paiii  one, 


THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII,  251 

"Ah!  I  haTe  a  bet  on  IiIdi,'  said  another;  "see  how  firmly 
te  walks!" 

"Good  luck  to  thee,  Lydon!"  said  a  third. 

"Lydon,  you  have  my  wishes,"  half  whispered  a  fourth,  smil- 
ing (a  comely  woman  of  the  middle  class) — "  and  if  you  win, 
why,  you  may  hear  more  of  me." 

"  A  haudsome  man,  by  Venus  ! "  cried  a  fifth,  who  was  a  girl 
scarcely  in  her  teens.  "  Thank  you,"  retm-ned  Sosia,  gravely 
taking  the  compliment  to  himself. 

However  strong  the  purer  motives  of  Lydon,  and  certain  though 
it  be  that  he  would  never  have  entered  so  bloody  a  calling,  but 
from  the  hope  of  obtaining  his  father's  freedom,  he  was  not  alto- 
gether unmoved  by  the  notice  he  excited.  He  forgot  that  the 
voices  now  raised  in  commendation  might,  on  the  morrow,  shout 
over  his  death-pangs.  By  nature  fierce  and  reckless,  as  well  as 
generous  and  warm-hearted,  he  was  already  imbued  with  the 
pride  of  a  profession  that  he  fancied  he  disdained,  and  affected 
by  the  influence  of  a  comjDanionship  that  in  reahty  he  loathed. 
He  saw  himself  now  a  man  of  importance;  his  step  grew  Ughter, 
and  liis  mien  more  elate. 

"Niger,"  said  he,  turning  suddenly,  as  he  had  now  threaded 
the  crowd,  "we  have  often  quarreled;  we  are  not  matched 
against  each  other,  but  one  of  us,  at  least,  may  reasonably  ex- 
pect to  faU — give  us  thy  hand." 

"  Most  readily,"  said  Sosia,  extending  his  palm. 

"Ha!  what  fool  is  this?  Why,  I  thought  Niger  was  at  my 
heels!" 

"I  forgive  the  mistake,"  said  Sosia,  condescendingly;  "  don't 
mention  it;  the  error  was  easy — I  and  Niger  are  somewhat  of  the 
same  build." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  that  is  excellent !  Niger  would  have  slit  thy  throat 
had  he  heard  thee  !" 

"  You  gentlemen  of  the  arena  have  a  most  disagreeable  mode 
of  talking,"  said  Sosia:  "  let  us  change  the  conversation." 

"  Vah!  Vahr  said  Lydon,  impatiently;  "I  am  in  no  humor 
to  converse  wil  h  thee  I  " 

"Why,  truly,"  returned  the  slave,  "you  must  have  serious 
thoughts  enough  to  occupy  your  mind;  to-morrow  is,  I  think, 
your  first  essay  in  the  arena  ?  Well,  I  am  sure  you  will  die 
bravely ! " 

"May  thy  words  fall  on  thine  own  head  !"  said  Lydon,  super- 
stitiously,  for  he  by  no  means  liked  the  blessing  of  Sosia.  "  Die! 
No — I  trust  my  hour  is  not  yet  come." 

"He  who  plays  at  dice  with  death  must  expect  the  dog's 
throw,"  replied  Sosia,  maliciously.  "  But  you  are  a  strong  fellow, 
and  I  wish  you  all  imaginable  luck;  and  so,  vale!" 

With  that  the  slave  turned  on  liis  heel,  and  took  his  way  home- 
ward. 

"I  trust  the  rogue's  words  are  not  ominous,"  said  Lydon,  mus- 
ingly. "  In  my  zeal  for  my  father's  liberty,  and  my  confidence 
in  my  omti  thews  and  sinews,  I  have  not  contemplated  the  pos- 
sibihty  of  death.  My  poor  father!  I  am  thy  only  son!— if  I  wer© 
to  fall " 


fm  THE  LAST  t)A  YS  OF  POMPEIt, 

As  tlie  thought  crossed  hirn,  the  gladiator  strode  on  with  a 
more  rapid  and  restless  pace,  when  suddenly,  in  an  opposite 
street,  he  beheld  the  very  object  of  his  thougiits.  Leaning  on 
his  stick,  his  form  bent  by  care  and  age,  his  eyes  downcast,  and 
his  steps  trembhng,  the  gray-haired  Medon  slowly  approached 
toward  the  gladiator.  Lydon  paused  a  moment;  he  divined  at 
once  the  cause  that  brought  forth  the  old  man  at  that  late  hour. 

*'  Be  sure,  it  is  I  whom  he  seeks,"  thought  he;  "he  is  horror- 
struck  at  tlie  condemnation  of  Olinthus — he  more  than  ever  es» 
teems  the  arena  criminal  and  hateful — he  comes  again  to  dis- 
suade me  from  the  contest.  I  must  shun  him — I  cannot  brook 
his  prayers — his  tears." 

These  thoughts,  so  long  to  recite,  flashed  across  the  young  man 
like  lightning.  He  Ku:ned  abruptly  and  fled  swiftly  in  an  oppo- 
site direction.  He  paused  not  till,  almost  spent  and  breathless, 
he  found  himseK  on  the  summit  of  a  small  acclivity  which  over- 
looked the  most  gay  and  splendid  part  of  that  miniature  city; 
and  as  there  he  paused,  and  gazed  along  the  trtmquil  streets 
glittering  in  the  rays  of  the  moon  (which  had  just  arisen, 
and  brought  partially  and  i:»icturesquely  into  light  the  crowd 
around  the  amphitheater  at  a  distance,  murmuring,  and 
swaying  to  and  fro),  the  influence  of  the  scene  affected  him,  rude 
and  unimaginative  though  his  nature.  He  sat  himself  down  to 
rest  upon  the  steps  of  a  deserted  portico,  and  felt  the  calm  of  the 
hour  quiet  and  restore  him.  Opposite  and  near  at  hand,  the 
lights  gleamed  from  a  palace  in  whicli  the  master  now  held  his 
revels.  The  doors  were  open  for  coolness,  and  the  gladiator  be- 
held the  numerous  and  festive  group  gathered  round  the  tables 
in  the  atrium;*  while  behind  them,  closing  the  long  vista  of  the 
illumined  rooms  beyond,  the  spray  of  the  distant  fountain  spark- 
led in  the  moonbeams.  There,  the  garlands  wreathed  around  the 
columns  of  the  hall — there,  gleamed  still  and  frequent  the  marble 
statue — there,  amid  peals  of  jocund  laughter,  rose  the  music  and 
the  lay. 

EPICUREAN  SONG. 

Away  with  your  stories  of  Hades, 
Which  tlie  Flainen  has  forged  to  affright  »»— 

We  laugh  at  your  three  Maiden  Ladies, 
Your  Fates — and  your  sullen  Cocytus. 

Poor  Jove  has  a  troublesome  life,  sir, 
Could  we  credit  your  tales  of  his  portals— 

In  shutting  his  curs  on  his  wife,  sir, 
And  opening  his  eyes  upon  mortals. 

Oh,  blest  be  the  bright  Epicurus! 

Who  taught  us  to  laugh  at  such  fables^ 
On  Hades  they  wanted  to  moor  us. 

And  his  Land  cut  the  terrihle  cables. 

If,  then,  there's  a  Jove  or  a  Juno, 
They  vex  not  their  heads  about  us,  man: 

*In  the  atrium,  as  I  have  elsewhere  observed,  a  larger  party  of  gueets 
than  ordinary  was  frequently  entertained. 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIL  'i^'^ 

Besides,  if  they  did,  1  and  you  know 
'Tis  the  life  of  a  god  to  live  thus^  mani 

What!  think  you  the  gods  place  their  bliss — ek? 

In  plajing  the  spy  on  a  sinner? 
In  counting  the  girls  that  we  kiss,  eh? 

Or  the  cups  that  we  empty  at  dinner? 

Content  with  the  soft  lips  that  love  us, 
This  music,  this  wine,  and  this  mirth,  boys. 

We  care  not  for  gods  up  above  us — 
We  know  there's  no  god  for  this  earth,  boys  I 

"WKi^e  I^ydon's  piety  (which,  accommodating  as  it  might  be, 
Was  ?n  no  slight  degree  disturbed  by  those  verses,  which  embod- 
ied the  fasliionable  philosophy  of  the  day)  slowly  recovered  it- 
self from  the  shock  it  had  received,  a  small  party  of  men,  in 
plain  garments  and  of  the  middle  class,  passed  by  Ms  resting- 
place.  They  were  in  earnest  conversation,  and  did  not  seem  to 
notice  or  heed  the  gladiator  as  they  moved  on. 

"  O  horror  on  horrors!"  said  one;  "  Olinthus  is  snatched  from 
us!  our  right  arm  is  lopped  away!  When  will  Christ  descend  to 
protect  his  own!" 

"  Can  human  atrocity  go  farther?"  said  another;  "to  sentence 
an  innocent  man  to  the  same  arena  as  a  murderer!  But  let  us 
not  despair;  the  thunder  of  Sinai  may  yet  be  heard,  and  the 
Lord  preserve  his  saint.  '  The  fool  has  said  in  his  heart,  There  is 
no  God.' » 

At  that  moment  out  broke  again,  from  the  illumined  palace, 
the  burden  of  the  revelers'  song: 

We  care  not  for  gods  up  above  us — 
We  know  there's  no  god  for  this  earth,  boys!" 

Ere  the  words  died  away,  the  Nazarenes,  moved  by  sudden  in- 
dignation, caught  up  the  echo,  and,  in  the  words  of  one  of  their 
favorite  hymns,  shouted  aloud — 

THE  WARNING  HYMN  OF  THE  NAZARENES. 

Around — about — for  ever  near  thee, 
God — OUR  God — shall  mark  and  hear  thee  I 
On  His  car  of  storm  He  sweeps! 
Bow,  ye  heavens,  and  shrink,  ye  deepsi 
Woe  to  the  proud  ones  who  defy  HimI 
Woe  to  the  dreamers  who  defy  HimI 

Woe  to  the  wicked,  woe! 
The  proud  stars  shall  f  ail— 
The  sun  shall  grow  pale— 
The  heavens  shrivel  up  like  a  scroll — 
Hell's  ocean  shall  bear 
Its  depths  of  despair, 
Each  wave  an  eternal  soul! 
For  the  only  thing,  then, 
That  shall  not  live  again, 

Is  the  corpse  of  the  giant  TimbI 
Hark,  the  trumpet  of  thunder! 
Lo,  earth  rent  asunder! 
And,  forth,  on  his  Angel-throne, 
He  comes  through  the  gloom. 


«54  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEH, 

The  Judge  of  the  Tomb, 
To  summon  and  save  His  own! 

Oh,  joy  to  Care,  and  woe  to  Crimt, 
He  comes  to  save  His  own! 
Woe  to  the  proud  ones  who  defy  Him, 
Woe  to  the  dreamers  who  deny  JHim, 
Woe  to  the  wicked,  woe  I 

A  sudden  silence  from  the  startled  hall  of  revel  succeeded  these 
ominous  words;  the  Christians  swept  on,  and  were  soon  hidden 
from  the  sight  of  the  gladiator.  Awed,  he  scarce  knew  why,  by 
the  mystic  denunciations  of  the  Christians,  Lydon,  after  a  short 
pause,  now  rose  to  pursue  his  way  homeward. 

Before  him,  how  serenely  slept  the  star-light  on  that  lovely- 
city!  how  breathlessly  its  pillared  streets  reposed  in  their  securityi 
how  softly  rippled  the  dark  green  waves  beyond!  how  cloudless 
spread,  aloft  and  blue,  the  dreaming  Campanian  skies!  Yet  this 
was  the  last  night  for  the  gay  Pompeii!  the  colony  of  the  hoar 
Chaldean!  the  fabled  city  of  Hercules!  the  delight  of  the  volup- 
tuous Roman!  Age  after  age  had  rolled,  indestructive,  unheeded, 
over  its  head:  and  now  the  last  ray  quivered  on  the  dial-plate  of 
its  doom!  The  gladiator  heard  some  light  steps  behind — a  group 
of  females  were  wending  homeward  from  their  visit  to  the  am- 
phitheater. As  he  turned,  his  eye  was  arrested  by  a  strange  aad 
sudden  apparition.  From  the  summit  of  Vesuvitis,  darkly  visible 
at  the  distance,  there  shot  a  pale,  meteoric,  livid  light — it 
trembled  an  instant  and  was  gone.  And  at  the  same  moment 
that  his  eye  caught  it,  the  voice  of  one  of  the  youngest  of  the 
women  broke  out  hilariously  and  shrill: 

Tramp!  tramp!  how  gayly  they  go! 
Ho,  ho!  for  the  morrow's  merry  show! 


BOOK  THE  FIFTH, 
CHAPTER  I. 

THE    PREAM  OF  ARBACES. — A    VISITOR    AND    A    WARNXNG  'fO  THW 
EGYPTIAN. 

The  awful  night  preceding  the  fierce  joy  of  the  amphitheater 
rolled  drearily  away,  and  grayly  broke  forth  the  dawn  of  the 
Last  Day  of  Pompeii!  The  air  was  uncommonly  calm  and 
sultry — a  thin  and  dull  mist  gathered  over  the  valleys  and  hol- 
lows of  the  broad  Campanian  fields.  But  yet  it  was  remarked  in 
surprise  by  the  early  fishermen,  that,  despite  tlie  exceeding  still- 
ness of  the  atmosphere,  the  waves  of  the  sea  were  agitated,  and 
seemed,  as  it  were,  to  run  disturbedly  back  from  the  shore; 
while  along  the  blue  and  stately  Sarnus,  whose  ancient  breadth 
of  channel  the  traveler  now  vainly  seeks  to  discover,  there  crept 
a  hoarse  and  sullen  murmur,  as  it  glided  by  the  laughing  plains 
and  the  gaudy  villas  of  the  wealtliy  citizens.  Clear  above  the 
low  mist  rose  the  time-worn  towers  of  the  immemorial  town, 
the  red-tiled  roofs  of  the  bright  streets,  the  solemn  columns  of 
many  temples,  and  the  statue-crowned  portals  of  the  Fonraa  and 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPBIl  25o 

tihe  Arch  of  Triumph.  Far  in  the  distance,  the  outline  of  the  oir- 
cling  hills  soared  above  the  vapors,  and  mingled  with  the  change- 
ful hues  of  the  morning  sky.  The  cloud  that  had  so  long  rested 
over  the  crest  of  Vesuvius  had  already  vanished,  and  its  rugged 
and  haughty  brow  looked  down  without  a  frown  over  the  beau- 
tiful scenes  below. 

Despite  the  earliness  of  the  hour,  the  gates  of  the  city  were  al- 
ready opened.  Horseman  upon  horseman,  vehicle  after  vehicle, 
poured  rapidly  in:  and  the  voices  of  numerous  pedestrian  groups, 
clad  in  holiday  attire,  rose  high  in  joyous  and  excited  merriment; 
the  streets  were  crowded  with  citizens  and  strangers  f  ron/  the 
populous  neighborhood  of  Pompeii;  and  noisily — fast — confusedly 
swept  the  many  streams  of  life  toward  the  fatal  show. 

Despite  the  vast  size  of  the  amphitheater,  seemingly  so  dispro- 
portioned  to  the  extent  of  the  city,  and  formed  to  include  nearly 
the  whole  population  of  Pompeii  itself,  so  great,  on  extraordi- 
nary occasions,  was  the  concourse  of  strangers  from  all  parts  of 
Campania,  that  the  space  before  it  was  usually  crowded  for  sev- 
eral hours  previous  to  the  commencement  of  the  sports,  by  such 
persons  as  were  not  entitled  by  rank  to  appointed  and  especial 
seats.  And  the  intense  curiosity  which  the  trial  and  sentence  of 
two  criminals  so  remarkable  had  occasioned,  increased  the  crowd 
on  this  day  to  an  extent  wholly  unprecedented. 

While  the  common  people,  with  the  lively  vehemence  of  their 
Campanian  blood,  were  thus  pushing,  scrambling,  hurrying  on — 
yet,  amid  all  their  eagerness,  preserving,  as  is  now  the  wont  with 
Italians  in  such  meetings,  a  wonderful  order  and  unquarrelsome 
good-humor— a  strange  visitor  to  Arbaces  was  threading  her  waj^ 
to  his  sequestered  mansion.  At  the  sight  of  her  quaint  and  pri- 
meval garb — of  her  wild  gait  and  gestures — the  passengers  she 
encountered  touched  each  other  and  smiled;  but  as  they  caught 
a  glimpse  of  her  countenance,  the  mirth  was  hushed  at  once,  foi 
the  face  was  as  the  face  of  the  dead ;  and,  what  with  the  ghastly 
features  and  obsolete  robes  of  the  stranger,  it  seemed  as  if  on© 
long  entombed  had  risen  once  more  among  the  living.  In  silence 
and  awe  each  group  gave  way  as  she  passed  along,  and  she  soon 
gained  the  broad  porch  of  the  Egyptian  s  palace. 

The  black  porter,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  astir  at  an  unusual 
hour,  started  as  he  opened  the  door  to  her  summons. 

The  sleep  of  the  Egyptian  had  been  unusually  profound  during 
the  night ;  but,  as  the  dawn  approached,  it  was  disturbed  by 
strange  and  unquiet  dreams,  which  impressed  him  the  more  aj? 
they  were  colored  by  the  pecuhar  philosophy  he  embraced. 

He  thought  that  he  was  transported  to  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
and  that  he  stood  alone  in  a  mighty  cavern,  supported  by  enoT' 
mous  columns  of  rough  and  primeval  rock,  lost,  as  they  ascended 
in  the  vastness  of  a  shadow  athwart  whose  eternal  darkness  no 
beam  of  day  had  ever  glanced.  And  in  the  space  between  these 
columns  were  huge  wheels,  that  whirled  round  and  round  un- 
ceasingly, and  with  a  rushing  and  roaring  noise.  Only  to  the 
right  and  left  extremities  of  the  cavern,  the  space  between  the 
pillars  was  left  bare,  and  the  apertures  stretched  away  into  gal- 
J^rwfl— not  wholly  dark,  but  dimly  lighted  by  wandering  an4 


SS'V  THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEII. 

erratic  fires,  that,  meteor-like,  now  crept  (as  the  snake  creeps) 
along  the  rugged  and  dank  soil,  and  now  leaped  fiercely  to  and 
fro,  darting  across  the  vast  gloom  in  wild  gambols — suddenly- 
disappearing,  and  as  suddenly  bursting  into  tenfold  brilliancy 
and  power.  And  while  he  gazed  wonderingly  upon  the  gallery 
to  the  left,  thin,  mist-like  aerial  shapes  passed  slowly  up  ;  anc 
when  they  had  gained  the  hall  they  seemed  to  rise  aloft,  and  to 
vanish,  as  the  smoke  vanishes,  in  the  measureless  ascent. 

He  turned  in  fear  toward  the  opposite  extremity — and  behold- 
there  came  swiftly,  from  the  gloom  above,  similar  shadows, 
which  swept  hurriedly  along  the  gallery  to  the  right,  as  if  borne 
involuntarily  adown  the  tides  of  some  invisible  stream;  and 
the  faces  of  these  specters  were  more  distinct  than  those  that 
emerged  from  the  opposite  passage;  and  on  some  was  joy,  and  on 
others  sorrow — some  were  vivid  with  expectation  and  hope,  some 
unutterably  dejected  in  awe  and  horror.  And  so  they  passed 
swift  and  constantly  on,  till  the  eyes  of  the  gazer  grew  dizzy  and 
blind  with  the  whirl  of  an  ever- varying  succession  of  things  im- 
pelled by  a  power  apparently  not  their  own. 

Arbaces  turned  away;  and,  in  the  recess  of  the  hall,  he  saw  the 
mighty  form  of  a  giantess  seated  on  a  pile  of  skulls,  and  her 
hands  were  busy  upon  a  pale  and  shadowy  woof  communicated 
with  the  numberless  wheels,  as  if  it  guided  the  machinery  of  their 
movements.  He  thought  his  feet,  by  some  secret  agency,  were 
impelled  toward  the  female,  and  that  he  was  borne  onward  till  he 
stood  before  her,  face  to  face.  The  countenance  of  the  giantess 
was  solemn  and  hushed ;  and  beautifully  serene.  It  was  as  the 
face  of  some  colossal  sculpture  of  his  ow^n  ancestral  sphinx.  No 
passion — no  human  emotion,  disturbed  her  brooding  and  un% 
wrinkled  brow;  there  was  neither  sadness  nor  joy,  nor  memory, 
nor  hope;  it  was  free  from  all  with  which  the  wild  human  heart 
can  sympathize.  The  mystery  of  mysteries  rested  upon  its  beauty, 
— it  awed,  but  terrified  not;  it  w^as  the  incarnation  of  the  Sublime. 
And  Arbaces  felt  the  voice  leave  his  lips,  without  an  impulse  of 
his  own;  and  the  voice  asked: 

**  Who  r.rt  thou,  and  what  is  thy  task?" 

"  I  am  That  Tvhich  thou  hast  acknowledged,"  answered,  with- 
out desisting  from  its  work,  the  mighty  phantom.  "  My  name  is 
Nature!  These  are  the  wheels  of  the  world,  and  my  hand  guides 
them  for  the  life  of  all  things." 

'*  And  what,"  said  the  voice  of  Arbaces,  **  are  these  galleries, 
that,  strangely  and  fitfully  illumined,  stretch  on  either  hand  into 
the  abyss  of  gloom?" 

**  That,"  answered  the  giant-mother,  '*  which  thou  beholdest  to 
the  left,  is  the  gallery  of  the  Unborn.  The  shadows  that  flit  on- 
ward and  upward  into  the  world,  are  the  souls  that  past  from  the 
long  eternity  of  being  to  their  destined  pilgrimage  on  the  earth. 
That  which  thou  beholdest  to  thy  right,  wheiein  the  shadows 
descending  from  above  sweep  on,  equally  unknown  and  dim,  is 
the  gallery  of  the  Dead!" 

*'  And  wherefore,"  said  the  voice  of  Arbaces,  **  yon  wandering 
lights,  that  so  wildly  break  the  darkness;  but  only  hreakt  tKA 
reveair 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII,  25? 

"Dark  fool  of  the  human  sciences!  dreamer  of  thw  jtars,  and 
would-be  decipherer  of  the  heart  and  origin  of  things!  those  lights 
are  but  the  glimmerings  of  such  knowledge  as  is  vouchsafed  to 
Nature  to  wo  A:  her  way,  to  trace  enough  of  the  past  and  future 
to  give  providence  to  her  designs.  Judge  then,  puppet  as  thou 
art,  what  lights  are  reserved  for  thee!" 

Arbaces  felt  liit^self  tremble  as  he  asked  again,  "Wherefore 
am  I  here?" 

"It  is  the  forecast  of  the  soul — the  prescience  of  thy  rushing 
doom — the  shadow  of  thy  fate  lengthening  into  eternity  as  it  de- 
clines from  earth." 

Ere  he  could  answer,  Arbaces  felt  a  rushing  wind  sweep  down 
the  cavern,  as  the  wings  of  a  giant  god.     Borne  aloft  from  the 
ground,  and  whirled  on  high  as  a  leaf  in  the  storms  of  autumn, 
he  beheld  himself  in  the  midst  of  the  Specters  of  the  Dead,  and 
hurrying  with  them  along  tlie  length  of  gloom.     As  in  vain  and 
Impotent  despair  he  struggled  against  the  impeJling  power,  he 
thought  the  WIND  grew  into  something  hke  a  shape — a  spectral 
outUne  of  the  wings  and  talons  of  an  eagle,  with  limbs  floating 
far  and  indistinctly  along  the  air,  and  eyes  that,  alone,  clearly 
and  vividly  seen,  glared  stonily  and  remorselessly  on  his  own. 
"  What  art  thou?"  again  said  the  voice  of  the  Egyptian. 
"I  am  that  which  thou  hast  acknowledged;"  and  the  specter 
laughed  aloud,  "and  my  name  is  Necessity." 
"To  what  dost  thou  bear  me?" 
"To  the  Unknown." 
"To  happiness  or  to  woe?" 
"As  thou  hast  sown,  so  shalt  thou  reap." 
"Dread  thing,  not  so?    If  thou  art  the  Ruler  of  life,  thine  are 
my  misdeeds,  not  mine." 

"I  am  but  the  breath  of  God!"  answered  the  mighty  WIND. 
"Then  is  my  wisdom  vain!"  groaned  the  dreamer. 
"  The  husbandman  accuses  not  fate,  when,  having  sown  thistles, 
he  reaps  not  corn.     Thou  hast  sown  crime,  accuse  not  fate  if 
thou  reapest  not  the  harvest  of  vii-tue. 

The  scene  suddenly  changed.  Arbaces  was  in  a  place  of 
human  bones;  and  lo!  in  the  midst  of  them  was  a  skull,  and  the 
skuJl  still  retaining  its  fleshless  hollows,  assumed  slowly,  and  in 
the  mysterious  confusion  of  a  dream,  the  face  of  Apaecides;  and 
forth  from  the  grinning  jaws  there  crept  a  small  worm,  and  it 
crawled  to  the  feet  of  Arbaces.  He  attempted  to  stamp  on  it  and 
crush  it;  but  it  became  longer  and  larger  with  that  attempt.  It 
s^\•eiled  and  bloated  till  it  grew  into  a  vast  serpent;  it  coiled  itself 
round  the  Umbs  of  Arbaces;  it  crunched  his  Tbones;  it  raised  its 
glaring  eyes  and  poisonous  jaws  to  his  face.  He  writhed  in 
vain;  he  withered,  he  gasped,  beneath  the  influence  of  the  blight- 
ing breath;  he  felt  himself  blasted  into  death.  And  then  a  voice 
came  from  the  reptile,  wliich  still  bore  the  face  of  Apaecides,  and 
rang  in  his  reeling  ear — 

"  Thy  victim  is  thy  judge  !  the  worm  thou  wouldst  crush 
becomes  the  serpent  that  devours  thee  i" 

With  a  shriek  of  wrath,  and  woe,  and  despairing  resistancje, 


358  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII. 

Arbaces  awoke — his  hair  on  end — his  brow  bathed  in  dew — his 
eyes  glazed  and  staring — his  mighty  frame  quivering  as  an  in- 
fant's, beneath  the  agony  of  that  dream.  He  awoke — he  collect- 
ed himself — he  blessed  the  ^ods  whom  he  disbelieved,  that  he 
was  in  a  dream — he  tm:Tied  his  eyes  from  side  to  side— he  saw  the 
dawDing  light  break  through  his  small  but  lofty  window — he 
was  in  the  Precincts  of  Day — he  rejoiced — he  smiled — his  eyes 
fell,  and  opposite  to  him  he  beheld  the  ghastly  features,  the  life- 
less eye,  the  livid  lip — of  the  Hag  of  Vesuvius! 

"  Hal"  he  cried,  placing  his  hands  before  his  eyes,  so  as  to  shut 
out  the  grisly  vision,  "do  I  dream  still?    Am  I  with  the  dead?" 

**  Mighty  Hermes — no!  Thou  art  with  one  death-like,  but  not 
dead.    Recognize  thy  friend  and  slave." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Slowly  the  shudders  that  passed 
over  the  limbs  of  the  Egyptian  chased  each  other  away,  faintlier 
and  faintlier  dying  till  he  was  himself  again. 

*' It  was  a  dream,  then,"  said  he.  "Well — let  me  dream  no 
more,  or  the  day  cannot  compensate  for  the  pangs  of  night. 
Woman,  how  camest  thou  here,  and  wherefore?" 

"  I  came  to  warn  thee,"  answered  the  sepulchral  voice  of  the 


Warn  me!  The  dream  lied  not  then?  Of  what  peril?" 
*'  Listen  to  me.  Some  evil  hangs  over  this  fated  city.  Fly 
while  it  be  time.  Thou  knowest  that  I  hold  my  home  on  that 
mountain  beneath  which  old  tradition  sayeth  there  yet  bum  the 
fires  of  the  river  of  Phlegethon;  and  in  my  cavern  is  a  vast 
abyss,  and  in  that  abyss  I  have  of  late  marked  a  red  and  dull 
stream  creep  slowly,  slowly  on;  and  heard  many  and  mighty 
sounds  hissing  and  roaring  through  the  gloom.  But  last  night, 
as  I  looked  thereon,  behold  the  stream  was  no  longer  dull,  but 
intensely  and  fiercely  luminous;  and  wliile  I  gazed,  the  beast  that 
liveth  with  me,  and  was  cowering  by  my  side,  uttered  a  shrill 
howl  and  fell  down  and  died,  and  the  slaver  and  froth  were 
round  his  lips.  I  crept  back  to  my  lair;  but  I  distinctly  heard, 
all  the  night,  the  rock  shake  and  tremble;  and,  though  the  air 
was  heavy  and  still,  there  were  the  hissing  of  pent  winds,  and 
the  grinding  of  wheels,  beneath  the  gi'ound.  So,  when  I  rose 
this  morning  at  (lie  very  birth  of  dawn,  I  looked  again  down 
the  abyss,  and  I  saw  vast  fragments  of  stone  borne  black  and 
floatingly  over  the  lurid  stream  ;  and  the  stream  itself  was 
broader,  fiercer,  redder  than  the  night  before.  Then  I  went 
forth,  and  ascended  to  the  summit  of  the  rock;  and  in  that  sum- 
mit there  appeared  a  sudden  and  vast  hollow,  which  I  had  never 
perceived  before,  from  wiiicli  curled  a  dim,  faint  smoke;  and  the 
vapor  w^as  deathly,  and  I  gasped,  and  sickened,  and  nearly  died. 
I  returned  home,  I  took  my  gold  and  my  drugs,  and  left  the 
habitation  of  many  vears;  for  I  remembered  the  dark  Etiiiscan 
prophecy  which  saitn,  '  When  the  mountain  opens,  the  city  shall 
fall — when  the  smoke  crowns  the  Hill  of  the  Parched  Fields, 
tlicre  shall  be  woe  and  weeping  in  the  hearths  of  the  Children  of 
the  Sea.'  Dread  master,  ere  I  leave  theee  walls  for  some  more 
distant  dwelling,  I  come  to  thee.  As  thou  livest,  know  I  in  my 
heart  that  the  earthquake  that  sixteen  years  ago  shook  this  city 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIL  259 

to  its  solid  base,  was  but  the  forerunner  of  more  deadly  doom 
The  walls  of  Pompeii  are  built  above  the  fields  of  the  Dead,  and 
the  rivers  of  the  sleepless  Hell.    Be  warned  and  fly  I" 

*'  Witch,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  care  of  one  not  ungrateful  On 
yon  table  stands  a  cup  of  gold;  take  it,  it  is  thine.  I  dreamed 
not  that  there  hved  one,  out  of  the  priesthood  of  Isis,  who  would 
have  saved  Arbaces  from  destruction.  The  signs  thou  hast  seen 
in  the  bed  of  the  extinct  volcano,"  continued  the  Egyptian,  mus- 
mgly,  "  sm-ely  teU  of  some  coming  danger  to  the  city;  perhaps 
another  earthquake  fiercer  than  the  last.  Be  that  as  it  may  there 
IS  a  new  reason  for  my  hastening  from  these  walls.  After  this 
day  I  will  prepare  my  departure.      Daughter  of  Etruria,  wliither 


wendest  thou?" 


I  shall  cross  over  to  Herculaneum  this  day,  and,  wandering 
thence  along  the  coast,  shall  seek  out  a  new  home.  I  am  friend- 
less; my  two  companions,  the  fox  and  the  snake,  are  dead.  Great 
Hermes,   thou  hast   promised  me  twenty  additional  years  of 

'\y^"^^^\  *}^®  Egyptian,  *'  I  have  promised  thee.  But,  wom- 
an, he  added,  hftmg  himself  upon  his  arm,  and  gazing  curiously 
on  her  face,  "tell  me,  I  pray  thee,  wherefore  thou  wishest  to 
uve:'  What  sweets  dost  thou  discover  in  existence?" 
4.x!'  P  ^®  ^^*  *^^*  ^^®  ^^  sweet,  but  that  death  is  awful,"  replied 
:?®  ^^^l2^A.  ®^^^'  impressive  tone,  that  struck  forcibly  upon 
the  heart  of  the  vam  star-seer.  He  winced  at  the  truth  of  the  re- 
ply; and,  no  longer  anxious  to  retain  so  uninviting  a  companion 
^1-  !,"^"^^^^^^®^'  I  must  prepare  for  the  solenm  spectacle 
of  this  day.  Sister,  fareweUl  enjoy  thyself  as  thou  canst  over 
the  ashes  of  life. 

The  hag,  who  had  placed  the  costly  gift  of  Arbaces  in  the  loose 
tolds  of  her  vest,  now  rose  to  depart.  Wlien  she  had  gained  the 
door  she  paused,  turned  back,  and  said,  "This  may  be  the  last 
tune  we  meet  on  earth;  but  whither  flieth  the  flame  when  it  leaves 
the  ashes?  Wandering  to  and  fro,  up  and  down,  as  an  exhalation 
on  the  morass,  the  flame  may  be  seen  in  the  marshes  of  the  lake 
below;  and  the  witch  and  the  Magian,  the  pupil  and  the  master, 
the  great  one  and  the  accursed  one,  may  meet  agam.  FareweU!" 
\..J^fl^''''^}^''l  ^^**F^d  Arbaces,  as  the  door  closed  on  the 
hags  tattered  robes;  and,  impatient  of  his  own  thoughts,  not  yet 

sfavJs^''^  ^^^*   ^''^''^'    ^®   ^^^^^^  suSmioned  his  ' 

It  was  the  custoni  to  a,ttend  the  ceremonials  of  the  amphitheater 
m  festive  robes,  and  Arbaces  arrayed  hmiself  that  day  with  more 
than  usual  care.  His  tunic  was  of  the  most  dazzling  white;  his 
many  fibulae  were  formed  from  the  most  precious  ftones;  over 
HnJ^i""-  .r^'^-V'^?!'  ^^^*®^^  ^'^b®'  lialf-gown,  half-mantle, 
fh«7i^fo'ifJ\^V/^^'*^  ^^!f  ^^  the  Tyrian  dye;  and  the  sandals 
that  reached  half-way  up  the  knee,  were  studded  with  gems,  and 
mlaid  with  gold.  In  the  quackeries  that  belonged  to  his  priestly 
Sf^il^'^  1  ^^^^^  ^^''^^  neglected,  on  great  occasions  the  arts 
wmch  dazzle  and  impose  upon  the  vulgar;  and  on  this  day,  that 
was  forever  to  release  him,  by  the  saciifice  of  Glaucus,  from  the 


^0  THE  LAST  DA  T8  OF  POMPEIT. 

fear  of  a  rival  and  the  chance  of  detection,  he  felt  that  ^e  vai 
arraying  liimself  as  for  a  triumph  or  a  nuptial  feast. 

It  was  customary  for  men  of  rank  to  be  accompanied  to  the 
shows  of  the  amphittieater  by  a  procession  oi  their  slave  b  and 
freedmen;  and  the  long  "family"  of  Ai-baces  were  already 
arranged  in  order,  to  attend  the  litter  of  their  lord. 

Only,  to  their  great  chagrin,  the  slaves  in  attendance  on  lone, 
and  the  worthy  Sosia,  as  jailer  to  Nydia,  were  condemned  to 
remain  at  home. 

"  Callias,"  said  Arbaces,  apart  to  his  freedman,  who  was  buck- 
ling on  Ms  girdle,  "  I  am  weary  of  Pompeii;  I  propose  to  quit  it 
in  three  days,  should  the  wind  favor.  Thou  knowest  the  vessel 
that  lies  in  the  harbor  which  belonged  to  Narses,  of  Alexandria; 
I  have  purchased  it  of  him.  The  day  after  to-morrow,  we  shall 
begin  to  remove  my  stores." 

"So  soon!  ^Tis  well.  Arbaces  shall  be  obeyed;  and  his  ward, 
lone?" 

*'  Accompanies  me.     Enoughl    Is  the  morning  fair?" 

"  Dim  and  oppressive;  it  will  probably  be  intensely  hot  in  the 
forenoon." 

"  The  poor  gladiators,  and  more  wretched  criminals!  Descend, 
and  see  that  the  slaves  are  marshaled." 

Left  alone,  Arbaces  stepped  into  his  chamber  of  study,  and 
thence  upon  the  poi-tico  without.  He  saw  the  dense  masses  of 
men  pouring  fast  into  the  amphitheater,  and  heard  Uie  cry  of  the 
assistants,  and  the  cracking  of  the  cordage,  as  they  were  straining 
aloft  the  huge  awning  under  which  the  citizens,  molested  by  no 
discomforting  ray,  were  to  behold,  at  luxurious  ease,  the  agonies 
of  their  fellow-creatures.  Suddenly  a  wild,  strange  sound  went 
forth  and  as  suddenly  died  away;  it  was  the  roar  of  the  lion. 
There  was  a  silence  in  the  distant  crowd;  but  the  silence  was 
followed  by  joyous  laughter;  they  were  making  meriy  at  the 
hungry  impatience  of  the  royal  beast. 

**  Brutes!''  muttered  the  disdainful  Arbaces,  "  are  ye  less  homi- 
cides than  I  am?  I  slay  but  in  self-defense — ye  make  murder 
pastime." 

He  turned,  with  a  restless  and  curious  eye,  toward  Vesuvius. 
Beautifully  glowed  the  green  vineyards  round  its  breast,  and 
tranquil  as  eternity  lay  in  the  breathless  skies  the  form  of  the 
mighty  hill. 

"  We  have  time  yet,  if  tlie  earthquake  be  nursing,"  thought 
Arbaces;  and  he  turned  from  the  spot.  He  passed  by  the  table 
which  bore  his  mystic  scrolls  and  Chaldean  calculations. 

"  August  art!"  he  thought,  "  I  have  not  consulted  thy  decrees 
•ince  I  passed  the  danger  and  the  crisis  they  foretold.  What 
matter? — I  know  that  henceforth  all  in  my  path  is  bright  and 
smooth.  Have  not  events  already  proved  it?  Away,  doubt — 
away,  pity!  Reflect,  O  my  heart— reflect  for  the  futuro,  but  twip 
i^  lages— Empire  and  lone  I" 


THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEII.  261 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  AMPHITHEATER. 

'  Nydia,  assured  by  the  account  of  Sosia,  on  his  return  home,  and 
satisfied  that  her  letter  was  in  the  hands  of  Sallust,  gave  herself 
up  once  more  to  hope.  Sallust  would  surely  lose  no  time  in 
seeking  the  praetor — in  coming  to  the  house  of  the  Egyptian — in 
breaking  the  prison  of  Calenus.  That  very  night  Glaucus  would 
be  free.  AlasI  the  night  passed — the  dawn  broke;  she  heard  noth- 
ing but  the  hurried  footsteps  of  the  slaves  along  the  hall  and 
peristyle,  and  their  voices  and  preparation  for  the  show.  By- 
and-by,  the  commanding  voice  of  Arbaces  broke  on  her  ear — a 
flourish  of  music  rang  out  cheerily  as  the  processions  were  sweep- 
ing to  the  amphitheater  to  glut  their  eyes  on  the  death-pangs  of 
the  Athenian! 

The  procession  of  Arbaces  moved  along  slowly,  till  now,  ar- 
riving at  the  place  where  it  was  necessary  for  such  as  came  in 
litters  or  chariots  to  ahght,  Arbaces  descended  from  his  vehicle, 
and  proceeded  to  the  entrance  by  which  the  more  distinguished 
spectators  were  admitted.  His  slaves  mingling  with  the  humblfer 
crowd,  were  stationed  by  officers  who  received  their  tickets  (not 
much  unlike  our  modern  Opera  ones),  in  place  in  the  popular ia 
(the  seats  apportioned  the  vulgar).  And  now,  from  the  spot  where 
Arbaces  sat,  his  eyes  scanned  the  mighty  and  unpatient  crowd 
that  filled  the  stupendous  theater. 

On  the  upper  tier  (but  apart  from  the  male  spectators)  sat  the 
women,  their  gay  dresses  resembling  some  gaudy  flower-bed:  it 
is  needless  to  add  that  they  were  the  most  talkative  part  of  the 
assembly;  and  many  were  the  looks  that  were  directed  up  to 
them,  especially  from  the  benches  that  were  appropriated  to  the 
young  and  unmarried  men.  On  the  lower  seats  round  the  arena 
sat  the  more  high-born  and  wealthy  visitors — ^the  magistrates 
and  those  of  the  senatorial  or  equer,trian  dignity;  the  passages 
which,  by  corridors  at  the  right  and  left,  gave  access  to  these 
seats,  at  either  end  of  the  oval  arena,  were  also  the  entrances  for 
the  combatants.  Strong  palings  at  these  passages  prevented  any 
unwelcome  eccentricity  in  the  movements  of  the  beasts,  and  con- 
fined them  to  their  appointed  prey.  Around  the  parapet,  which 
was  raised  above  the  arena,  and  from  which  the  seats  gradually 
rose,  were  gladiatorial  inscriptions,  and  paintings  wrought  in 
fresao,  typical  of  the  entertainments  for  which  the  place  was  de- 
iigntd.  Tliroughout  the  whole  building  wound  invisible  pipes, 
from  which,  as  the  day  advanced,  cooling  and  fragrant  showers 
were  to  be  sprinkled  over  the  spectators.  The  officers  of  the  am- 
phitheater were  still  employed  m  the  task  of  fixing  the  vast  awn- 
ing (or  velaria)  which  covered  the  whole,  and  which  luxurious 
invention  the  Campanians  arrogated  to  themselves;  it  was  woven 
of  the  whitest  Apulian  wool,  and  variegated  with  broad  stripes 
of  crimson.  Owing  either  to  some  inexperience  on  the  part  of 
the  workmen,  or  to  some  defect  in  the  machinery,  the  awning, 
however,  was  not  arranged  that  day  so  happily  as  usual;  indeed, 
frona  th^  immeu^e  space  of  the  circumfereiice,  the  task  was  al- 


263  THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEII. 

ways  one  of  great  (Jifficulty  and  art — so  much  so  that  it  could 
seldom  be  adventured  in  rough  or  windy  w^eather. 

But  the  present  day  was  so  remarkably  still,  that  there  seemed 
to  the  spectators  no  excuse  for  the  awkwardness  of  the  artificers; 
and  when  a  large  gap  in  the  back  of  the  awning  was  still 
visible,  from  the  obstinate  refusal  of  one  part  of  the  velaria  to 
ally  itself  with  the  rest,  the  murmurs  of  discontent  were  loud 
and  general. 

The  aedile  Pansa,  at  whose  expense  the  exhibition  was  given, 
looked  particularly  annoyed  at  the  defect,  and  vowed  bitter  venge- 
ance on  the  head  of  the  chief  officer  of  the  show,  who,  fret- 
ting, puffing,  perspirmg,  busied  himself  in  idle  orders  and  una- 
vailing threats. 

The  hubbub  ceased  suddenly — the  operators  desisted — the 
crowd  were  stilled — the  gap  was  forgotten — for  now,  with  a  loud 
and  warlike  flourish  of  trumpets,  the  gladiators,  marshaled  with 
ceremonious  procession,  entered  the  arena.  They  swept  around 
the  oval  space  very  slowly  and  deliberately,  in  order  to  give  the 
spectators  full  leisure  to  admire  their  stern  serenity  of  feature — 
their  brawny  limbs  and  various  arms  as  well  as  to  form  such 
wagers  as  the  excitement  of  the  moment  might  suggest. 

"  Oh!"  cried  the  w4dow  Fulvia  to  the  wife  of  Pansa,  as  they 
leaned  down  from  their  lofty  bench,  "  do  you  see  that  gigantic 
gladiator  ?  how  drolly  he  is  dressed  !" 

"Yes,"  said  the  sedile's  wife  with  complacent,  importance,  for 
she  knew  all  the  names  and  qualities  of  each  combatant;  *'  he  is 
a  retiarius  or  netter;  he  is  armed  only,  you  see,  with  a  three- 
pronged  spear,  like  a  trident,  and  a  net;  he  wears  no  armor,  only 
the  fillet  and  the  tunic.  He  is  a  mighty  man,  and  is  to  fight 
with  Sporus,  yon  thick -set  gladiator,  with  the  round  shield  and 
drawn  sword,  but  without  body  armor;  he  has  not  his  helmet  on 
now,  in  order  that  you  may  see  his  face — how  fearless  it  is  I — by- 
and-by  he  will  fight  with  his  vizor  down." 

'*  But  surely  a  net  and  a  spear  are  poor  arms  against  a  shield 
and  sword  ?" 

''  That  shows  how  innocent  you  are,  my  dear  Fulvia;  the  re- 
tiarius has  generally  the  best  of  it." 

"  But  who  is  yon  liandsome  gladiator,  nearl}--  naked — is  it  not 
quite  improper  ?  By  Venus  1  but  his  limbs  are  beautifully 
shaped  !" 

"ItisLydon,  a  young  untried  man!  he  has  the  rashness  to 
fight  yon  other  gladiator  similarly  dressed,  or  rather  undressed — 
Tetraides.  Tliey  fight  first  in  the  Greek  fashion,  with  the  cestus; 
afterward  they  put  on  annor,  and  try  sword  and  shield." 

"  He  is  a  proper  man  this  Lydon;  and  the  women,  I  am  sure, 
are  on  his  side." 

"  So  are  not  the  experienced  betters;  Clodius  offers  three  to  one 
against  him." 

"  Oh,  Jove!  how  beautiful!"  exclaimed  the  widow,  as  two 
gladiators,  armed  cap-a-pie,  rode  round  the  arena  on  light  and 
prancing  steeds.  Resembling  much  the  combatants  in  the  tilts 
of  the  middle  age,  they  bore  lances  and  round  shields  beautifully 
inlaid ;  theij"  armor  was  woven  intricately  with  bands  of  iron,  but 


THE  LAST  DATS  OF  POMPEIL  263 

it  covered  only  the  thighs  and  the  right  arms;  short  cloaks  ex- 
tending to  the  seat,  gave  a  picturesque  and  graceful  air  to  their 
costume;  their  legs  were  naked  with  the  exception  of  sandals, 
which  were  fastened  a  little  above  the  ankle.  "  Oh,  beautifull 
Who  are  these?"  asked  the  widow. 

"The  one  is  named  Berbix;  he  has  conquered  twelve  times; 
the  other  assumes  the  arrogant  Nobilior.     They  are  both  Gauls." 

While  thus  conversing,  the  first  formalities  of  the  show  were 
over.  To  these  succeeded  a  feigned  combat  with  wooden  swords 
between  the  various  gladiators  matched  against  each  other. 
Among  these,  the  skill  of  two  Roman  gladiators,  hired  for  the 
occasion,  was  the  most  admired;  and  next  to  them  the  most 
graceful  combatant  was  Lydon.  This  sham  contest  did  not  last 
above  an  hour,  nor  did  it  attract  any  very  lively  interest,  except 
among  those  connoisseurs  of  the  arena  to  whom  art  was  prefer- 
able to  more  coarse  excitement;  the  body  of  the  spectators  were 
rejoiced  when  it  was  over;  and  when  the  sympathy  rose  to  ter- 
ror. The  combatants  w^ere  now  arranged  in  pairs,  as  agreed 
beforehand;  theii*  weapons  examined;  and  the  grave  sports  of  the 
day  commenced  amid  the  deepest  silence — broken  only  by  an  ex- 
citing and  prehminary  blast  of  warlike  music. 

It  was  often  customary  to  begin  the  sports  by  the  most  cruel  of 
all,  and  some  bestiarius,  or  gladiator  appointed  to  the  beasts, 
was  slain  first,  as  an  initiatory  sacrifice.  •  But  in  the  present  in- 
stance, the  experienced  Pansa  thought  better  that  the  sanguinary 
drama  should  advance,  not  decrease,  in  interest;  and,  accord- 
ingly, the  execution  of  Olinthus  and  Glaucus  was  reserved  for 
the  last.  It  was  arranged  that  the  two  horsemen  should  first 
occupy  the  arena;  that  the  foot  gladiators,  paired  off,  should  then 
be  loosed  uidiscriminately  on  the  stage;  that  Glaucus  and  the  lion 
should  next  perform  their  part  in  the  bloody  spectacle;  and  the 
tiger  and  the  Nazarene  be  the  grand  finale.  And,  in  the  specta- 
cles of  Pompeii,  the  reader  of  Roman  history  must  limit  Ms 
imagination,  nor  expect  to  find  those  vast  and  wholesale  exhibi- 
tions of  magnificent  slaughter  with  which  a  Nero  or  a  Caligula  re- 
galed the  inhabitants  of  the  Imperial  City.  The  Roman  shows, 
wliich  absorbed  the  more  celebrated  gladiators,  and  the  chief  pro- 
portion of  foreign  beasts  were  indeed  the  very  reason  why,  in 
the  lesser  towns  of  the  empire,  the  sports  of  the  amphitheater 
vrere  comparatively  humane  and  rare;  and  in  this,  as  in  other  re- 
spects, Pompeii  was  the  miniature,  the  microcosm  of  Rome.  Still, 
it  was  an  awful  and  imposing  spectacle,  with  which  modem 
times  have,  happily,  nothing  to  compare;  a  vast  theater,  rising 
row  upon  row,  and  swarming  with  human  beings,  from  fifteen 
to  eighteen  thousand  in  number,  intent  upon  no  fictitious  repre- 
sentation— no  tragedy  of  the  stage — but  the  actual  victory  or  de- 
feat, the  exultant  life  or  the  bloody  death,  of  each  and  all  who 
entered  the  arenal 

The  two  horsemen  were  now  at  either  extremity  of  the  lists 
(if  so  they  might  be  called);  and  at  a  given  signal  from  Pansa,  the 
combatants  started  simultaneously  as  in  full  coUision,  each  ad- 
vancing his  round  buckler,  each  poising  on  high  his  sturdy  jave- 
lin; but  just  when  within  thi-ee  paces  of  his  opponent,  th©  steed 


264  THE  LAST  J) AYS  OP  POMFEIL 

of  Berbix  suddenly  baited,  wheeled  around,  and,  as  Nobilior  was 
borne  rapidly  by,  liis  antagonist  spurred  upon  him.  Tlie  budwler 
of  Nobilior,  quickly  and  skilfully  extended,  received  a  blow  which 
otherwise  would  have  been  fatal. 

*'  Well  done,  Nobilior!"  cried  the  praetor,  giving  the  first  vent 
to  the  popular  excitement. 

"  Bravely  struck,  my  Berbix!"  answered  Clodius  from  his  seat. 

And  the  wild  murmur,  swelled  by  many  a  shout,  echoed  from 
side  to  side. 

The  vizors  of  both  the  horsemen  were  completely  closed  (like 
those  of  the  knights  in  after  times),  but  the  head  was,  neverthe- 
less, the  great  point  of  assault;  and  Nobilior,  now  wheeling  his 
charger  \\dth  no  less  adroitness  than  his  opponent,  directed  his 
spear  full  on  the  helmet  of  his  foe.  Berbix  raised  his  buckler  to 
sliield  himself,  and  his  quick-eyed  antagonist,  suddenly  lowering 
his  weapon,  pierced  him  through  the  breast.  Berbix  reeled  and 
fell. 

"  Nobilior!  Nobilior!"  shouted  the  populace. 

*'  I  have  lost  ten  sestertia,"  *  said  Clodius,  between  his  teeth. 

"  Hdbet! — he  has  it,"  said  Pansa,  deliberately. 

The  populace,  not  yet  hardened  into  cruelty,  made  the  signal 
of  mercy;  but  as  the  attendants  of  the  arena  approached,  they 
found  the  kindness  came  too  late — the  heart  of  the  Gaul  had 
been  pierced,  and  his  eyes  were  set  in  death.  It  was  liis  life's 
blood  that  flowed  so  darkly  over  the  sand  and  sawdust  of  the 
arena. 

'*  It  is  a  pity  it  was  so  soon  over — there  was  little  enough  for 
one's  trouble,"  said  the  widow  Fulvia. 

"  Yes — I  have  no  compassion  for  Berbix.  Any  one  might 
have  seen  that  Nobilior  did  but  feint.  Mark,  they  fix  the  fatal 
hook  to  the  body — they  drag  him  away  to  the  spoliarium — they 
scatter  new  sand  over  the  stage!  Pansa  regrets  nothing  more  than 
that  he  is  not  rich  enough  to  strew  the  arena  with  borax  and  cin- 
nabar, as  Nero  used  to  do." 

"  Well,  if  it  has  been  a  brief  battle,  it  is  quickly  succeeded. 
See  my  handsome  Lydon  on  the  arena — ay,  and  the  net-bearer 
too,  and  the  swordsmen!  Oh,  charming!" 

Tliere  were  now  on  the  arena  six  combatants:  Niger  and  his 
net,  matched  against  Sporus  wiih  his  shield  and  his  short  broad- 
sword; Lydon  and  Tetraides,  naked  save  by  a  cincture  round  the 
waist,  each  armed  only  with  a  heavy  Greek  cestus — and  two 
gladiators  from  Rome,  clad  in  complete  steel,  and  evenly  match- 
ed with  immeuse  bucklers  and  pointed  swords. 

Tlie  initiatory  contest  between  Lydon  and  Tatraides  being  less 
deadly  than  that  between  the  other  combatants,  no  sooner  had 
they  advanced  to  the  middle  of  the  arena  than,  as  by  common 
consent,  the  rest  held  back,  to  see  how  that  contest  should  be 
decided,  and  wait  till  fiercer  weapons  might  replace  the  cestus, 
ere  they  themselves  commenced  hostilities.  They  stood  leaning 
on  their  arms  and  apart  from  each  other,  gazing  on  the  sliow, 
which,  if  not  bloody  enough  thoroughly  to  please  the  populace, 

♦  A  little  more  than  $400. 


TBE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPMI.  M 

tlierewere  still  inclined  to  admire,  because  its  origia  wis  of 
their  ancestral  Greece. 

No  person  could,  at  first  glance,  have  seemed  less  evenly  match- 
ed than  the  two  antagonists.  Tetraides,  though  no  taller  than 
Lydon,  weighed  considerably  more;  the  natural  size  of  his  mus- 
cles was  mcreased,  to  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar,  by  masses  of  solid 
flesh;  for,  as  it  was  a  notion  that  the  contest  of  the  cestus  fared 
easiest  with  him  who  was  plumpest,  Tetraides  had  encouraged 
to  the  utmost  his  hereditary  predisposition  to  the  portly.  His 
shoulders  were  vast,  and  his  lower  limbs  thickset,  double-jomted, 
and  shghtly  curved  outward,  in  that  formation  which  takes  so 
much  from  beauty  to  give  so  largely  to  strength.  But  Lydon, 
except  that  he  was  slender  even  almost  to  meagerness,  was 
beautifuUy  and  dehcately  proportioned;  and  the  skilful  might 
have  perceived  that,  with  much  less  compass  of  muscle  than  Jus 
foe,  that  which  he  had  was  more  seasoned— hon  and  compact. 
In  proportion,  too,  as  he  wanted  flesh,  he  was  likely  to  possess 
activity;  and  a  haughty  smile  on  his  resolute  face,  which  strong- 
ly contrasted  the  solid  heaviness  of  Ins  enemy's,  gave  assurance 
to  those  who  beheld  it,  and  united  their  hope  to  their  pity;  so 
that,  despite  the  disparity  of  their  seeming  strength,  the  cry  ot 
the  multitude  was  nearly  as  loud  for  Lydon  as  for  Tetraides. 

Whoever  is  acquainted  with  the  modern  prize-ring--whoever 
has  witnessed  the  heavy  and  disabling  strokes  which  the  human 
fist,  skilfully  dhected,  hath  the  power  to  bestow— may  easily  un- 
derstand how  much  that  happy  faciUty  would  be  increased  by  a 
band  carried  by  throngs  of  leather  round  the  arm  as  high  as  the 
elbow,  and  terribly  strengthened  about  the  knuckles  by  a  plate 
of  iron,  and  sometimes  a  plumpet  of  lead.  Yet  this,  which  was 
meant  to  increase,  perhaps  rather  diminished,  the  interest  of  the 
fray;  for  it  necessarily  shortened  its  duration.  A  very  few  blows, 
successfully  and  scientifically  planted,  might  suffice  to  brmg  the 
contest  to  a  close;  and  the  battle  did  not,  therefore,  often  allow 
full  scope  for  the  energy,  fortitude,  and  dogged  perseverance, 
that  we  technically  style  pluch,  which  not  usually  wins  the  day 
against  superior  science,  and  which  hightens  to  so  painful  a  de- 
light the   interest  in  the   battle   and   the    sympathy  for   the 


brave. 


*'  Guard  thyself  1"  growled  Tetraides,  moving  nearer  and  nearer 
to  his  foe,  who  rather  shifted  round  him  than  receded. 

Lydon  did  not  answer,  save  by  a  scornful  glance  of  his  quick, 
vigilant  eye.  Tetraides  struck— it  was  as  the  blow  of  a  smith  on 
a  vise;  Lydon  sank  suddenly  on  one  knee— the  blow  passed  over 
nis  head.  Not  so  harmless  was  Lvdon's  retaliation;  he  <3fiic'^ly 
snrang  to  his  feet,  and  aimed  Ms  cestus  full  on  the  broad  chest 
of  his  antagonist.    Tetraides  reeled— the  populace  shouted. 

"You  are  unlucky  to-day,"  said  Lepidus  to  Clodius:  "you 
have  lost  one  bet;  you  will  lose  another." 

"By  the  gods  I  my  bronzes  go  to  the  auctioneer  if  that  is  the 
case.    I  have  no  less  than  a  hundred  sestertia*  upon  Tetraides. 

♦Above  $4,000. 


see  TBE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEII. 

Ha,  hal  see  how  he  rallies  I  That  was  a  home  stroke;  he  cut 
open  Lydon's  shoulder.    A  TetraidesI — a  Tetraidesl" 

'•ButLydon  is  not  disheartened.  By  Pollux  I  how  well  h« 
keeps  his  temperl  See  how  dexterously  he  avoids  those  ham- 
mer-like hands  1— dodging  now  here,  now  there — circling  round 
and  round.    Ah,  poor  Lydonl  he  has  it  again." 

"  Three  to  one  still  on  Tetraidesl    What  say  you,  Lepidus?** 

**  Well — nine  sestertia  to  three — be  it  so!  What?  again,  Lydon? 
lie  stops — he  gasps  for  breath.  By  the  gods,  he  is  downl  No — 
lie  is  again  on  his  legs.  Brave  Lydonl  Tetraides  is  encouraged 
— he  laughs  loud — he  rushes  on  him." 

"Fool — success  blinds  him — he  should  be  cautious.  Lydon's 
eye  is  like  a  lynx's  1'  said  Clodius,  between  his  teeth, 

"Ha,  Clodiusl  saw  you  that?  Your  man  totters  I  Another 
blow— he  falls— he  falls  I" 

"  Earth  revives  him,  then.  He  is  once  more  up;  but  the  blood 
rolls  down  his  face." 

"By  the  thundererl  Lydon  wins  it.  See  how  he  presses  on 
himl  That  blow  on  the  temple  would  have  crushed  an  oxl  it 
has  crushed  Tetraides.  He  falls  again — he  cannot  move — habet! 
—habetr 

'* Habetr  repeated  Pansa.  "Take  them  out  and  give  them 
the  armor  and  swords." 

"  Noble  aedile,"  said  the  officers,  "  we  fear  that  Tetraides  will 
not  recover  in  time;  howbeit,  we  will  try.'* 

"Do  so." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  officers,  who  had  dragged  off  the  stun- 
ned and  insensible  gladiator,  returned  with  rueful  countenances. 
They  feared  for  his  life;  he  was  utterly  incapacitated  from  re- 
entering the  arena. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Pansa,  "  hold  Lydon  a  suhditins;  and  the 
first  gladiator  that  is  vanquished,  let  Lydon  supply  his  place  with 
the  victor." 

The  people  shouted  their  applause  at  this  sentence;  then  they 
again  sank  into  deep  silence.  The  trumpet  sounded  loudly. 
The  four  combatants  stood  against  each  other  in  prepared  and 
stern  array. 

"Dost  thou  recognize  the  Romans,  my  Clodius;  are  they 
among  the  celebrated,  or  are  they  merely  ordinarii  ?" 

"Eumolpus  is  a  good  second-rate  swordsman,  my  Lepidus, 
Nepimus,  the  lesser  man,  I  have  never  seen  before;  but  he  is  a 
son  of  one  of  the  imperial  fiscales,*  and  brought  up  in  a  proper 
school;  doubtless  they  will  show  sport,  but  I  have  no  heart  for 
the  game;  I  cannot  win  back  my  money — I  am  undone.  Cursee 
on  that  Lydon!  who  would  have  supposed  he  was  so  dexterous 
or  so  lucky  ?" 

"Well,  Clodius,  shall  I  take  compassion  on  you,  and  accept 
your  own  terms  with  these  Romans  ?" 

"  A.n  even  ten  sestertia  on  Eumolpus,  then?" 

"What!  when  Nepimus  is  untried?  Nay,  nay;  that  Is  i»9 
bed." 

^         ' r.   .■    .  ■< 

♦  Gladiators  maintained  by  the  Emperor, 


\  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  267 

"Well-ten  to  eight?" 

*' A^eed." 

Wlule  the  contest  in  the  amphitheater  had  thus  commenced, 
there  was  one  in  the  loftier  bench.^s  for  whom  it  had  assumed, 
indeed,  a  poignant,  a  stifling  interest.  The  aged  father  of  Lydon, 
desj)ite  his  Christian  horror  of  the  spectacle,  in  his  agonized 
anxiety  for  his  son,  had  not  been  able  to  resist  being  the  spec- 
tator of  his  fate.  Once  amid  a  fierce  crowd  of  strangers,  the 
lowest  rabble  of  the  populace,  the  old  man  saw,  felt  nothing,  but 
the  form,  the  presence  of  his  brave  son!  Not  a  sound  had  escaped 
his  lips  when  twice  he  had  seen  liim  fall  to  the  earth;  only  he 
had  turned  paler,  and  his  limbs  trembled.  But  he  had  uttered 
one  low  cry  when  he  saw  him  victorious,  unconscious,  alas!  of 
the  more  fearful  battle  to  which  that  victoiy  was  but  a  prelude. 

"  My  gallant  boy!"  said  he,  and  wiped  his  eyes. 

"Is  he  thy  son?"  said  a  brawny  fellow  to  the  right  of  the 
Nazarene;  "he  has  fought  well:  let  us  see  how  he  does  by-and- 
by.  Hark!  he  is  to  fight  the  first  victor.  Now,  old  boy,  pray 
the  gods  that  that  victor  be  neither  of  the  Romans  1  nor,  next  to 
them,  the  giant  Niger." 

The  old  man  sat  down  again  and  covered  his  face.  The  fray 
for  the  moment  was  indifferent  to  him — Lydon  was  not  one  of 
the  combatants.  Yet,  yet,  the  thought  flashed  across  him — the 
fray  was  indeed  of  deadly  interest— the  first  who  fell  was^  to 
make  way  for  Lydon  I  He  started,  and  bent  down,  with  straining 
eyes  and  clasped  hands,  to  view  the  encounter. 

The  first  interest  was  attracted  toward  the  combat  of  Niger 
with  Sporus;  for  this  spectacle  of  contest,  from  the  fatal  result 
which  usually  attended  it,  and  from  the  great  science  it  required 
in  either  antagonist,  was  always  peculiarly  inviting  to  the 
spectators. 

They  stood  at  a  considerable  distance  from  each  other.  The 
singular  helmet  which  Sporus  wore  (the  vizor  of  which  was  down) 
concealed  his  face;  but  the  features  of  Niger  attracted  a  fearful 
and  universal  interest  from  their  compressed  and  vigilant  feroc- 
ity. Thus  they  stood  for  some  moments,  each  eying  each,  until 
Sporus  began  slowly,  and  with  great  caution,  to  advance,  hold- 
ing his  sword  pointed,  like  a  modern  fencer's,  at  the  breast  of  his 
foe.  Niger  retreated  as  his  antagonist  advanced,  gathering  up 
his  net  with  his  right  hand,  and  never  taking  his  small,  glitter- 
ing eye  from  the  movements  of  the  swordsman.  Suddenly, 
when  Sporus  had  approached  nearly  at  arm's  length,  the  re- 
tiarius  tlirew  himself  forward,  and  cast  his  net.  A  quick 
inflection  of  body  saved  the  gladiator  from  the  deadly  snare;  be 
uttered  a  sharp  cry  of  joy  and  rage,  and  rushed  upon  Niger;  but 
Niger  had  already  drawn  in  his  net,  thrown  it  across  his  shoul- 
ders, and  now  fled  around  the  lists  with  a  swiftness  which  the 
secutor  *  in  vain  endeavored  to  equal.  The  people  laughed  and 
shouted  aloud,  to  see  the  ineffectual  efforts  of  the  broad-shoul- 
dered gladiator  to  overtake  the  flying  giant;  when,  at  that  mo- 

*  So  called,  from  the  office  of  that  tribe  ot  gladiators  in  foUowirtg  the 
foe  the  moment  the  net  waa  cast,  in  order  to  smite  him  ere  he  could  hav-^ 
time  to  re-arrange  it. 


2t)8  TBE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEII 

ment,  their  attention  was  turned  from  these  to  the  two  Bomm 
combatants. 

They  had  placed  themselves  at  the  onset  face  to  face,  at  the 
distance  of  modem  fencers  from  each  other;  but  the  extreme 
caution  which  both  evinced  at  first  had  prevented  any  warmth  of 
engagement,  and  allowed  the  spectators  full  leisure  to  interest 
themselves  in  the  battle  between  Sporus  and  his  foe.  But  the 
Romans  were  now  heated  into  full  and  fierce  encounter;  they 
pushed,  returned,  advanced  on,  retreated  from  each  other  with 
all  that  careful,  yet  scarcely  perceptible,  caution  which  charac- 
terizes  men  well  experienced  and  equally  matched.  But  at  this 
moment,  Eumolpus,  the  elder  gladiator,  by  that  dexterous  back- 
stroke wliich  was  considered  in  the  arena  so  difficult  to  avoid, 
had  wounded  Nepimusin  the  side.  The  people  shouted;  Lepidus 
turned  pale. 

"Hoi"  said  Clodius,  "the  game  is  nearly  over.  If  Eumolpiis 
fights  now  the  quiet  fight,  the  other  will  gradually  bleed  himself 
away." 

*'  But,  thank  the  gods,  he  does  not  fight  the  backward  fight. 
See,  he  presses  hard  upon  Nepimus.  By  Mars,  but  Nepimus  had 
him  there;  the  helmet  rang  again — Clodius,  I  shall  win!" 

"Why  do  I  ever  bet  but  at  the  dice?"  groaned  Clodius  to  him- 
self; "  or  why  cannot  one  cog  a  gladiator?" 

"  A  Sporus  I  a  Sporus  I  "  shouted  the  populace,  as  Niger,  hav- 
ing now  suddenly  paused,  had  again  cast  his  net,  and  again  un- 
successfully. He  had  not  retreated  this  time  with  sufficient 
agility ;  the  sword  of  Sporus  had  inflicted  a  severe  wound  upon 
his  right  leg  ;  and,  incapacitated  to  fly,  he  was  hard  pressed  by 
the  fierce  swordsman.  His  great  hight  and  length  of  arm  still 
continued,  however,  to  give  him  no  despicable  advantages,  and 
steadily  keeping  his  trident  at  the  front  of  his  foe,  he  repelled 
hiTTi  successfully  for  several  minutes.  Sporus  now  tried,  by 
great  rapidity  of  evolution,  to  get  round  his  antagonist,  who 
necessarily  moved  with  pain  and  slowness.  In  so  doing,  he  lost 
his  caution — he  advanced  too  near  to  the  giant — raised  his  arm  to 
strike,  and  received  the  three  points  of  the  fatal  spear  full  in  his 
breast  I  He  sank  on  his  knee.  In  a  moment  more,  the  deadly 
net  was  cast  over  him — he  struggled  against  its  meshes  in  vain  ; 
again— again— again  he  writhed  mutely  beneath  the  fresh  strokes 
of  the  trident — his  blood  flowed  fast  through  the  net  and  redly 
over  the  sand.  He  lowered  his  arms  in  acknowledgment  of  de- 
feat. 

The  conquering  retiarius  withdrew  his  net,  and  leaning  on  his 
spear  looked  to  the  audience  for  their  judgment.  Slowly,  too,  at 
the  same  moment,  tlie  vanquished  gladiator  rolled  his  dim  and 
despairing  eyes  around  the  theater.  Fi'om  row  to  row,  from 
bench  to  bench,  there  glared  upon  liim  but  merciless  and  unpity- 
ing  eyes. 

Hushed  was  the  roar — the  murmur  1  The  silence  was  dread,  for 
in  it  was  no  sympathy  ;  nor  not  a  hand — no  ;  not  even  a  woman's 
hand— gave  the  signal  of  charity  and  life  I  Sporus  had  nevei 
l>een  popular  in  the  arena  ;  and,  latel;>^,  the  interest  of  the  com- 


\  THE  LAST  BAYS  OF  POMPEII.  260 

bat  had  been  excited  on  behalf  of  the  wounded  Niger.  The  peo* 
pie  were  warmed  into  blood — the  mimic  fight  had  ceased  to 
charm  ;  the  interest  had  mounted  up  to  the  desire  of  sacrifice  and 
the  thirst  of  death  ! 

The  gladiator  felt  that  his  doom  was  sealed  :  he  uttered  no 
prayer — no  groan.  The  people  gave  the  signal  of  death  !  In 
dogged  but  agonized  submission,  he  bent  his  neck  to  receive  the 
fatal  stroke.  And  now,  as  the  spear  of  the  retiarius  was  not  a 
weapon  to  inflict  instant  and  certain  death,  there  stalked  into  the 
arena  a  grim  and  fatal  form,  brandishing  a  short,  sharp  sword, 
and  with  features  utterly  concealed  beneath  its  vizor.  With 
slow  and  measured  step,  this  dismal  headsman  approached  the 
gladiator,  still  kneeUng — laid  the  left  hand  on  his  humbled  crest 
—drew  the  edge  of  the  blade  across  his  neck — ^turned  round  to 
the  assembly,  Test,  in  the  last  moment,  remorse  should  come  upon 
them  ;  the  dread  signal  continued  the  same;  the  blade  glittered 
bright  J  in  the  air — fell — and  the  gladiator  rolled  upon  the  sand  ; 
his  limbs  quivered — were  still — he  was  a  corpse. 

His  body  was  dragged  at  once  from  the  arena  through  the  gate 
of  death,  and  thrown  into  the  gloomy  den  termed  technically  the 
spoHarium.  And  ere  it  had  well  reached  that  destination,  the 
strife  between  the  remaining  combatants  was  decided.  The 
Bword  of  Eumolpus  had  inflicted  the  death- wound  upon  the  less 
experienced  combatant.  A  new  victim  was  added  to  the  re- 
ceptacle of  the  slain. 

Throughout  that  mighty  assembly  there  now  ran  a  universal 
movement;  the  people  breathed  more  freely,  and  settled  them- 
selves in  their  seats.  A  grateful  shower  was  cast  over  every  row 
from  the  concealed  conduits.  In  cool  and  luxurious  pleasure 
they  talked  over  the  late  spectacle  of  blood.  Eumolpus  removed 
his  helmet,  and  wiped  Ms  brows;  his  close-curled  hair  and  short 
beard,  his  noble  Roman  features  and  bright  dark  eye,  attracted 
the  general  admiration.     He  was  fresh,  unwounded,  unfatigued. 

The  aedile  paused,  and  proclaimed  aloud  that,  as  Niger's  wound 
disabled  him  from  again  entering  the  arena,  Lydon  was  tc  be 
the  successor  to  the  slaughtered  Nepimus,  and  the  new  comba° 
tant  of  Eumolpus. 

"Yet  Lydon,"  added  he,  "if  thou  wouldst  decline  the  combat 
with  one  so  brave  and  tried,  thou  mayst  have  full  liberty  to  do  so. 
Eumolpus  is  not  the  antagonist  that  was  originally  decreed  for 
thee.  Thou  knowest  best  how  far  thou  canst  cope  Avith  him.  If 
thou  failest  thy  doom  is  honorable  death;  if  thou  conquerest,  out 
of  my  own  purse  I  will  double  the  stipulated  prize.'' 

The  people  shouted  applause.  Lydon  stood  in  the  lists,  he 
gazed  around;  high  above  he  beheld  the  pale  face,  the  straining 
eyes,  of  his  father.  He  turned  away  irresolute  for  a  moment. 
No  I  the  conquest  of  the  cestus  was  not  sufficient — he  had  not  yet 
won  the  prize  of  victory — his  father  was  still  a  slave  I 

•*  Noble  89dile!''  he  replied,  in  a  fii-m  and  deep  tone,  "  I  shrink 
not  from  this  combat.  For  the  honor  of  Pompeii,  I  demand  that 
•ne  trained  by  its  long-celebrated  lanista  sh^  do  battle  with  this 
Roman." 

The  people  shouted  louder  than  before. 


270  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIt 

*'  Four  to  one  against  Lydon!'*  said  Clodius  to  Lepidus. 

"I  would  not  take  twenty  to  one  I  Why,  Eumolpus  is  a  very 
Achilles,  and  this  poor  fellow  is  but  a  tyroP^ 

Eumolpus  gazed  hard  on  the  face  of  Lydon;  he  smiled;  yet 
the  smile  was  followed  by  a  slight  and  scarce  audible  sigh — a 
touch  of  compassionate  emotion,  which  custom  conquered  the 
moment  the  heart  acknowledged  it. 

And  now  both,  clad  in  complete  armor,  the  sword  drawn,  the 
vizor  closed,  the  two  last  combatants  of  the  arena  (ere  man,  at 
least,  was  matched  with  beast),  stood  opposed  to  each  other. 

It  was  just  at  this  time  that  a  letter  was  delivered  to  the  prae- 
tor by  one  of  the  attendants  of  the  arena;  he  removed  the  cinc- 
ture— glanced  over  it  for  a  moment — his  countenance  betrayed 
surprise  and  embarrassment.  He  re-read  the  letter,  and  then 
mutterinff — "Tush!  it  is  impossible — the  man  must  be  drunk, 
even  in  the  morning,  to  di-eam  of  such  follies!"  threw  it  careless- 
ly aside,  and  gravely  settled  himself  once  more  in  the  attitude  of 
attention  to  the  sports. 

■  The  interest  of  the  public  was  wound  up  very  liigh.  Eumolpus 
had  at  first  won  their  favor;  but  the  gallantry  of  Lydon,  and  his 
well-timed  allusion  to  the  honor  of  the  Pompeian  lanista,  had  af- 
terward given  the  latter  the  preference  in  their  eyes. 

*' Holla,  old  fellow,"  said  Medon's  neighbor  to  him,"  **Your 
son  is  hardly  matched;  but  never  fear,  the  asdile  will  not  permit 
him  to  be  slain — ^no,  nor  the  people  neither,  he  has  behaved  too 
bravely  for  that.  Ha!  that  was  a  home  thrust!  well  averted,  by 
Pollux  I  At  him  again,  Lydon;  they  stop  to  breathel  What  art 
thou  muttering,  old  boy?" 

"  Prayers,"  answered  Medon,  with  a  more  calm  and  hopeful 
mien  than  he  had  yet  maintained. 

"Prayers! — trifles!  The  time  for  gods  to  carry  a  man  away  in 
a  cloud  is  gone  now.  Ha,  Jupiter!  what  a  blow!  Thy  side — thy 
side! — take  care  of  thy  side,  Lydon!" 

There  was  a  convulsive  tremor  throughout  the  assembly.  A 
fierce  blow  from  Eimiolpus,  full  on  the  crest,  had  brought  Lydon 
to  his  knee. 

"  Hahet! — he  has  it!"  cried  a  shrill  female  voice;  "he  has  it!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  the  girl  who  had  so  anxiously  anticipated 
the  sacrifice  of  some  criminal  to  the  beasts. 

"  Be  silent,  child!"  said  the  wife  of  Pansa,  haughtily,  "ifo/i 
hahet! — he  is  not  wounded!" 

"  I  wish  he  were,  if  only  to  spite  old  surly  Medon,"  muttered 
the  girl. 

Meanwhile  Lydon,  who  had  hitherto  defended  himself  with 
greaf  skill  and  valor,  began  to  give  way  before  the  vigorous  as- 
saults of  the  practiced  Romau;  his  arm  grew  tired,  his  eye  dizzy, 
he  breathed  hard  and  painfully.  The  combatants  paused  again 
for  breath. 

"  Young  man,"  said  Eiunolpus,  in  a  low  voice,  "  desist;  I  will 
wound  thee  slightly — then  lower  thy  arms;  thou  hast  propitiated 
the  sedile  and  the  mob — thou  wilt  be  honorably  saved." 

"And  my  father  still  enslaved!'' groaned  Lydon  to  himselt 
"  Nol  death  or  hjs  freedom." 


\ 

\  THE  LAST  J) AYS  OF  POMPEn.  271 

At  that  thought,  and  seeing  that,  his  strength  not  being  equal 
to  the  endurance  of  the  Roman,  everything  depended  on  a  sud- 
den and  desperate  effort,  he  threw  himself  fiercely  on  Eumolpus; 
the  Roman  warily  retreated— Ly  don  thrust  again— Eumolpus  drew 
himself  aside — the  sword  grazed  his  cuirass — Ly  don's  breast  was 
exposed— the  Roman  plunged  his  sword  through  the  joints  of  the 
armor,  not  meaning,  however,  to  inflict  a  deep  wound;  Lydon, 
weak  and  exhausted,  fell  forward,  fell  right  on  the  point;  it 
passed  through  and  through,  even  to  the  back.  Eumolpus  drew 
forth  his  blade;  Lydon  still  made  an  effort  to  regain  his  balance 
— his  sword  left  his  grasp — he  struck  mechanically  at  the  gladia- 
tor with  his  naked  hand,  and  fell  prostrate  on  the  arena.  With 
one  accord,  aedile  and  assembly  made  the  signal  of  mercy;  the 
oflficers  of  the  arena  approached,  they  took  off  the  lielmet  of  the 
vanguished.  He  still  breathed;  his  eyes  rolled  fiercely  on  his  foe; 
the  savageness  he  had  acquired  in  his  calling  glared  from  his 
gaze,  and  lowered  upon  the  brow  darkened  already  with  the 
shades  of  death;  then,  with  a  convulsive  groan,  with  a  half-start, 
he  lifted  his  eyes  above.  They  rested  not  on  the  face  of  the 
aedile  nor  on  the  pitying  brows  of  the  relenting  judges.  He  saw 
them  not;  they  were  as  if  the  vast  space  was  desolate  and  bare; 
one  pale,  agonizing  face  alone  was  all  he  recognized — one  cry  of  a 
broken  heart  was  all  that,  amid  the  murmurs  and  the  shouts  of 
the  populace,  reached  his  ear.  The  ferocity  vanished  from  his 
brow;  a  soft,  a  tender  expression  of  sanctifying  but  despairing 
filial  love  played  over  his  features — played — waned — darkened  I 
His  face  suddenly  became  locked  and  rigid,  resuming  its  former 
fierceness.    He  fell  upon  the  earth. 

"Look  to  him,"  said  the  aedile;  *'  he  has  done  his  duty!" 

The  officers  dragged  him  off  to  the  spoliarium. 

**  A  true  type  of  glory,  and  of  its  fate  I"  murmured  Arbaces  to 
himself;  and  his  eye,  glancing  round  the  amphitheater,  betrayed 
so  much  of  disdain  and  scorn,  that  whoever  encountered  it  felt 
his  breath  suddenly  arrested,  and  his  emotions  frozen  into  one 
sensation  of  abasement  and  of  awe. 

Again  rich  perfumes  were  wafted  around  the  theater;  the  at- 
tendants sprinkled  fresh  sand  over  the  arena. 

"Bring  forth  the  lion  and  Glaucus  the  Athenian,"  said  the 
aedile. 

And  a  deep  and  breathless  hush  of  overwrought  interest,  and 
intense  (yet,  strange  to  say,  not  unpleasing)  terror  lay,  lik«  a 
mighty  and  awful  dream,  over  the  assembly. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

SALLtrST  AND    NYDIA'S  LETTER. 


Thrice  had.  Sallust  wakened  from  his  morning  sleijp,  and 
thrice,  recollecting  that  his  friend  was  that  day  to  perish,  had  he 
turned  himself  with  a  deep  sigh  once  more  to  court  oblivion. 
His  sole  object  in  life  was  to  avoid  pain;  and  where  he  could  not 
avoid,  at  least  to  forget  it. 

At  length,  unable  any  longer  to  steep  his  consciousness  in 
slumber,  he  raised  himself  from  his  recumbent  posture,  and  dis- 


27S  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEH. 

covered  his  favorite  freedman  sitting  by  his  bedside  as  usual: 
for  Sallust,  who,  as  I  have  said,  had  a  gentleman-like  taste  for 
the  polite  letters,  was  accustomed  to  be  read  tojf  or  an  hour  or  so 
previous  to  his  rising  in  the  morning. 

*'  No  books  to-dayl  no  more  Tibullus!  no  more  Pindar  for  mel 
Pindar!  alas,  alasl  the  very  name  recalls  those  games  to  which 
our  arena  is  the  savage  successor.  Has  it  begun — the  amphithea- 
ter? are  its  rites  commenced?" 

*'  Long  since,  O  SallustI  Did  you  not  hear  the  trumpets  and 
the  trampling  feet?" 

*'  Ay,  ay;  but  the  gods  be  thanked,  I  was  drowsy,  and  had  only 
to  turn  round  to  fall  asleep  again." 

"The  gladiators  must  have  been  long  in  the  ring." 

"The  wretches  1  None  of  my  people  have  gone  to  the  spec- 
tacle?" 

"Assuredly  not;  your  orders  are  too  strict." 

"  That  is  well;  would  the  day  were  overl  What  is  that  letter 
yonder  on  the  table?" 

"Thatl  Oh,  the  letter  brought  to  you  last  night,  when  you 
were  too — too " 

"  Drimk  to  read  it,  I  suppose.  No  matter!  it  cannot  be  of  much 
importance." 

"Shall  I  open  it  for  you,  Sallust?" 

"Do;  anything  to  divert  my  thoughts.    Poor  Glaucus!'* 

The  freedman  opened  the  letter.  "What!  Greek!"  said  he; 
"  some  learned  lady,  I  suppose."  He  glanced  over  the  letter,  and, 
for  some  moments  the  irregular  lines  traced  by  the  fair  girl's 
hand  puzzled  him.  Suddenly,  however,  his  countenance  ex- 
hibited emotion  and  surprise.  "Good  gods!  noble  SallustI 
what  have  we  done  not  to  attend  to  this  before?    Hear  me  read!" 

"  *  Nydia,  the  slave,  to  Sallust,  the  friend  of  Glaucus!  I  am  a 
prisoner  in  the  house  of  Arbaces.  Hasten  to  the  praetor!  procure 
my  release,  and  we  shall  yet  save  Glaucus  from  the  lion.  There 
is  another  prisoner  within  these  walls,  whose  witness  can  exone- 
rate the  Athenian  from  the  charge  against  liim;  one  who  saw 
the  crime — who  can  prove  the  criminal  in  a  villain  hitherto  im- 
suspected.  Fly!  hasten!  quick!  quick!  Bring  with  you  armed  men, 
lest  resistance  be  made — and  a  cunning  and  dexterous  smith;  for 
the  dungeon  of  my  fellow-prisoner  is  thick  and  strong.  Oh!  by 
thy  right  hand,  and  thy  fatner's  ashes,  lose  not  a  moment!' " 

"Great  Jove!"  exclaimed  Sallust,  starting,  "and  this  day — 
nay,  within  this  hour,  i)erhaps  he  dies.  What  is  to  be  done?  I 
will  instantly  to  the  praetor." 

"Nay;  not  so.  The  praetor  (as  well  as  Pansa,  the  aedile  lum- 
eelf,)  is  the  creature  of  the  mob;  and  the  mob  will  not  hear  of 
delay;  they  will  not  be  balked  in  the  very  moment  of  expecta- 
tion. Besides,  the  publicity  of  the  appeal  would  forewarn  the 
cunning  Egyptian.  It  is  evident  that  he  has  some  interest 
in  these  concealments.  Nay,  fortunately  thy  slaves  are  in  thy 
house." 

"I  seize  thy  meaning,"  interrupted  Sallust;  "arm  the  slaves 
instantly.    The  streets  are  empty.    W«  will  ourselves  hasten  ta 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  27S 

the  house  of  Arbaces,  and  release  the  prisoners.  Quickl  qnickl 
What  hoi  Davus  there  I  My  gown  and  sandals,  the  papyrus  and 
a  reed.*  I  will  write  to  the  praetor  to  beseech  him  to  delay  the 
Bentence  of  Glaucus,  for  that,  within  an  hour,  we  may  yet  prove 
him  innocent.  So,  so;  that  is  well.  Hasten  with  this,  Darus, 
to  the  praetor  at  the  amphitheater.  See  it  given  to  his  own 
hand.  Now  then,  O  ye  gods  I  whose  providence  Epicurus  denied, 
befriend  me  and  I  will  call  Epicurus  a  liarl" 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  AMPHITHEATER  ONCE  MORE. 

GliAUCUS  and  Olinthus  had  been  placed  together  in  that  gloomy 
and  narrow  cell  in  which  the  criminals  of  the  arena  awaited 
their  last  and  fearful  struggle.  Their  eyes,  of  late  accustomed  to 
the  darkness,  scanned  the  faces  of  each  other  in  that  awful  hour, 
and  by  that  dim  light,  the  paleness,  which  chased  away  the 
natural  hues  from  either  cheek,  assumed  a  yet  more  ashy  and 
ghastly  whiteness.  Yet  their  brows  were  erect  and  dauntless — 
their  hmbs  did  not  tremble— tlieir  Ups  were  compressed  and 
rigid.  The  religion  of  the  one,  the  pride  of  the  other,  the  con- 
scious innocence  of  both,  and  it  may  be  the  support  derived 
from  their  mutual  companionship,  elevated  the  victim  into  the 
hero. 

"Hark!  hearest  thou  that  shout?  They  are  growhng  over  their 
human  blood,"  said  Olinthus. 

"  I  hear;  my  heart  grows  sick;  but  the  gods  support  me." 
**  The  gods!  O  rash  young  man!  in  this  hour  recognize  only  the 
One  God.    Have  T  not  taught  thee  in  the  dungeon,  wept  for 
thee,  prayed  for  thee?— in  my  zeal  and  in  my  agony,  have  I  not 
thought  more  of  thy  salvation  than  my  own?" 

*'  Brave  friend!"  answered  Glaucus,  solemnly,  "  I  have  listened 
to  thee  with  awe,  with  wonder,  and  with  a  secret  tendency 
toward  conviction.  Had  our  lives  been  spared,  I  might  gradu- 
ally have  weaned  myself  from  the  tenets  of  my  own  faith,  and 
inclined  to  thine;  but  in  this  last  hour,  it  were  a  craven  thing, 
and  a  base,  to  yield  to  hasty  terror  what  should  only  be  the 
result  of  lengthened  meditation,  Were  I  to  embrace  thy  creed, 
and  cast  do^v^l  my  father's  gods,  should  I  not  be  bribed  by  thy 
piomise  of  heaven,  or  awed  by  thy  threats  of  hell?  Olinthus,  no. 
Think  we  of  each  other  with  equal  .charity — I  honor  thy  sincerity 
— thou  pitying  my  blindness  or  my  obdiurate  courage.  As  have 
been  my  deeds,  such  will  be  my  reward;  and  the  Power  or 
Powers  above  will  not  judge  harshly  of  human  error,  when  it  is 
linked  with  honesty  of  purpose  and  truth  of  heart.  Speak  wa 
no  more  of  this.  Hush!  dost  not  hear  them  drag  yon  heavy 
body  through  the  passage?  Such  as  that  clay  will  be  ours 
Boon." 

•*  O  Heaven!  O  Christ!  already  I  behold  ye!"  cried  the  fervent 

*  The  reed  (caZamws)  Avas  iised  for  writing  on  papyrus  and  parchment; 
the  stylus,  for  writing  on  Waxen  tablets,  plates  of  metal,  etc.  Letters 
were  written  aometimes  on  tablets,  sometimes  on  papyrus. 


274  TEE  LAST  DA  Y8  OF  POMPEII 

Olintbus,  lifting  up  his  hands;  "  I  tremble  not~T  rejoice  that  the 
prison-houee  shall  oe  soon  broken." 

Glaucus  bowed  his  head  in  silence.  He  felt  the  distinction 
between  his  fortitude  and  that  of  his  fellow-sufferer.  The  heath- 
en did  not  tremble;  but  the  Christian  exulted. 

The  door  swung  gratingly  back — the  gleam  of  spears  shot  along 
the  wall. 

"Glaucus  the  Athenian,  thy  time  has  come,"  said  a  loud  and 
clear  voice;  "  the  hon  awaits  thee." 

'*  I  am  ready,"  said  the  Athenian.  *'  Brother  and  co-mate,  one 
last  embrace!    Bless  me — and  farewell!" 

The  Christian  opened  his  arms;  he  clasped  the  young  heathen 
to  his  breast;  he  kissed  his  forehead  and  cheek;  he  sobbed  aloud; 
his  tears  flowed  fast  and  hot  over  the  features  of  liis  new  friend. 

*'0h!  could  I  have  converted  thee,  I  had  not  wept.  Oh!  that 
I  might  say  to  thee,  '  We  two  shall  sup  this  night  in  Paradise!'  " 

"It  may  be  so  yet,"  answered  the  Greek  with  a  tremulous 
voice.  *'  They  whom  deatii  parts  now,  may  yet  meet  beyond 
the  grave;  on  the  earth — on  the  beautiful,  the  beloved  earth,  fare- 
well for  ever!    Worthy  officer,  I  attend  you." 

Glaucus  tore  himself  away;  and  when  he  came  forth  into  the 
air,  its  breath,  which,  though  sunless,  was  hot  and  arid,  smote 
witheringly  upon  him.  His  frame,  not  yet  restored  from  the 
effects  of  the  deadly  draught,  shrank  and  trembled.  The  officers 
supported  him. 

*'Couragel"  said  one;  "thou  art  young,  active,  well  knit. 
They  give  thee  a  weapon!  despair  not,  and  thou  mayst  yet  con- 
quer." 

Glaucus  did  not  reply;  but,  ashamed  of  his  infirmity,  he  made 
a  desperate  and  convulsive  effort,  and  regained  the  firmness  of 
his  nerves.  They  anointed  his  body,  completely  naked  save  by  a 
cincture  round  the  loins,  placed  the  stilus  (vain  weapon!)  in  his 
hand,  and  led  him  into  the  arena. 

And  now  when  the  Greek  saw  the  eyes  of  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands  upon  him,  he  no  longer  felt  that  he  was  mortal.  All 
evidence  of  fear,  all  fear  itself,  was  gone.  A  red  and  haughty 
flush  spread  over  the  paleness  of  his  features;  he  towered  aloft  to 
the  full  of  his  glorious  stature.  In  the  elastic  beauty  of  his  limbs 
and  form,  in  his  intent  but  unfrowning  brow,  in  the  liigh  dis- 
dain, and  in  the  indomitable  soul,  which  breathed  visibly,  w^hich 
spoke  audibly,  from  his  attitude,  his  lip,  his  eye;  he  seemed  the 
very  incarnation,  vivid  and  corporeal,  of  the  valor  of  his  land;  of 
the  divinity  of  its  worship;  at  once  a  hero  and  a  god! 

The  murmur  of  hatred  and  horror  at  his  crime,  which  had 
greeted  his  entrance,  died  into  the  silence  of  involuntary  admir- 
ation and  half -compassionate  respect;  and,  with  a  quick  and  con- 
vulsive sigh,  that  seemed  to  move  the  wliole  mass  of  hfe  as  if  it 
were  one  body,  the  gaze  of  the  spectators  turned  from  the  Athen- 
ian to  a  dark  uncouth  object  in  the  center  of  the  arena.  It  waa 
the  grated  den  of  the  lion. 

"By  Venus,  how  warm  it  is!"  said  Fulvia;  "yet  there  is  no 
Bun.  Would  that  those  stupid  sailors  could  have  fastened  up  that 
gap  in  the  awning!" 


TBE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POMPEII.  275 

"  OhI  it  is  warm  indeed.  I  tuin  sick — I  faint  I"  said  the  vnfe 
of  Pansa;  even  her  experienced  stoicism  giving  way  at  the  strag- 
gle about  to  take  place. 

The  lion  had  been  kept  without  food  for  twenty-four  hours,  and 
the  animal  had,  during  the  whole  morning,  testified  a  singular 
and  restless  luieasiness  which  the  keeper  had  attributed  to  the 
pangs  of  hunger.  Yet  its  bearing  was  rather  that  of  fear  than  of 
rage;  its  roar  was  painful  and  distressed;  it  hung  its  head — 
snuffed  the  au*  through  the  bars — then  lay  down — started  again 
— and  again  uttered  its  wild  and  far-resounding  cries.  And  now, 
in  its  den,  it  lay  utterly  dumb  and  mute,  with  distended  nostrils 
forced  hard  against  the  grating,  and  disturbing,  with  a  heavy 
breath,  the  sand  below  on  the  arena. 

The  aedile's  lip  quivered,  and  his  cheek  grew  pale;  he  looked 
anxiously  around — hesitated — delayed;  the  crowd  became  im- 
patient. Slowly  he  gave  the  sign;  the  keeper,  who  was  behind 
the  den,  cautiously  removed  the  grating,  and  the  lion  leaped 
fortli  with  a  mighty  and  glad  roar  of  release.  The  keeper  hastily 
retreated  through  the  grated  passage  leading  from  the  arena,  and 
left  the  lord  of  the  forest — and  his  prey. 

Glaucus  had  bent  his  limbs  so  as  to  give  himself  the  firmest 
posture  at  the  expected  rush  of  the  lion,  with  his  small  and  shin- 
ing weapon  raised  on  high,  in  the  faint  hope  that  one  well-di- 
rected thrust  (for  he  knew  that  he  should  have  time  but  for  one)^ 
might  penetrate  through  the  eye  to  the  brain  of  his  grim  foe. 

But,  to  the  unutterable  astonishment  of  all,  the  beast  seemed 
not  even  aware  of  the  presence  of  the  criminal. 

At  the  first  moment  of  its  release  it  halted  abruptly  in  the 
arena,  raised  itself  half  on  end,  snuffing  the  upward  air  with  im- 
patient sighs;  then  suddenly  it  sprang  forward,  but  not  on  the 
Athenian.  At  half-speed  it  circled  round  and  round  the  space, 
turning  its  vast  head  from  side  to  side  with  an  anxious  and  per- 
turbed gaze,  as  if  seeking  only  some  avenue  of  escape;  once  or 
twice  it  endeavored  to  leap  up  the  parapet  that  divided  it  from 
the  audience,  and,  on  failing,  uttered  rather  a  baffled  howl  than 
its  deep-toned  and  kingly  roar.  It  evinced  no  sign,  either  of 
wrath  or  hunger;  its  tail  drooped  along  the  sand,  instead  of  lash- 
ing its  gaunt  sides;  and  its  eye,  though  it  wandered  at  times  to 
Glaucus,  rolled  again  listlessly  from  him.  At  length,  as  if  tired  or 
attempting  to  escape,  it  crept  with  a  moan  into  its  cage,  and 
once  more  laid  itself  down  to  rest. 

The  first  surprise  of  the  assembly  at  the  apathy  of  the  lion 
soon  grew  converted  into  resentment  at  its  cowardice;  and  the 
populace  already  merged  their  pity  for  the  fate  of  Glaucus  into 
angry  compassion  for  their  own  disappointment. 

The  sedile  called  to  the  keeper. 

"How  is  this?  Take  the  goad,  prick  him  forth,  and  then 
close  the  door  of  the  den." 

As  the  keeper,  with  some  fear,  but  more  astonishment,  was 
preparing  to  obey,  a  loud  cry  was  heard  at  one  of  the  entrances 
to  the  arena;  there  was  a  confusion,  a  bustle;  voices  of  remon- 
strance suddenly  breaking  forth,  and  suddenly  silenced  at  the 
reply.    All  eyes  turned  in  wonder  at  th§  interruntion,  toward 


276  TBE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEH, 

the  quarter  of  the  disturbance;  the  crowd  gave  way,  and  suA. 
denly  Sallust  appeared  on  tlie  senatorial  benches,  his  hair  dis- 
heveled; breathless,  heated,  half-exliausted.  He  cast  his  eyes 
hastily  round  the  ring.  "Remove  the  AthenianI"  he  cried; 
*•  haste;  he  is  innocent!"  AiTest  Arbaces  the  Egyptian;  HE  is 
the  murderer  of  ApsecidesI" 

*'Art  thou  mad,  O  Sallust?"  said  the  praetor,  rising  from  his 
Beat.     "  What  means  this  raving?" 

"  Remove  the  Athenian.  Quickl  or  his  blood  be  on  your  head. 
Prsetor,  delay,  and  you  answer  with  your  own  life  to  the  Em- 
peror I  I  bring  with  me  the  eye-witness  to  the  death  of  the 
priest  Apaecides.  Room  there,  stand  back,  give  way.  People  of 
Pompeii,  fix  every  eye  upon  Arbaces;  there  he  sits  I  Room  there 
for  the  priest  CalenusI" 

Pale,  haggard,  fresh  from  the  jaws  of  famine  and  of  death, 
his  face  f aUen,  his  eyes  dull  as  a  vulture's,  his  broad  frame  gaunt 
as  a  skeleton,  Calenus  was  supported  into  tlie  very  row  in 
which  Arbaces  sat.  His  releasers  had  given  him  sparingly  of 
food;  but  the  chief  sustenance  that  nerved  his  feeble  limbs  was 
revenge  I 

"The  priest  Calenus — Calenus!'*  cried  the  mob.  **Ifc  is  he? 
No — it  is  a  dead  man!" 

"  It  is  the  priest  Calenus,"  said  the  prastor,  gravely.  "  What 
hast  thou  to  say?" 

"  Arbaces  of  Egypt  is  the  murderer  of  Apaecides,  the  priest  of 
Isis;  these  eyes  saw  him  deal  the  blow.  It  is  from  the  dungeon 
into  which  he  plunged  me — it  is  from  the  darkness  and  horror  of 
a  death  by  famine — that  the  gods  have  raised  me  to  proclaim  his 
crime!    Release  the  Athenian — he  is  innocent!" 

"It  is  for  this,  then,  that  the  lion  spared  him.  A  miracle!  a 
miracle!"  cried  Pansa. 

"A  miracle!  a  miracle!"  shouted  the  people;  "remove  the 
Athenian — Arbaces  to  the  lion.'''' 

And  that  sliout  echoed  from  hill  to  vale — from  coast  to  sea — 
Arbaces  to  the  lion. 

"Officers,  remove  the  accused  Glaucus — remove,  but  guard 
him  yet,"  said  the  prsetor.  "The  gods  lavish  their  wonders  upon 
this  day." 

As  the  praetor  gave  the  word  of  release,  there  was  a  cry  of  joy; 
a  female  voice,  a  child's  voice;  and  it  was  of  joy!  It  rang 
through  the  heart  of  the  assembly  with  electric  force;  it  was 
touching,  it  was  holy,  that  child's  voice.  And  the  populace 
echoed  it  back  with  sympathizing  congratulation. 

"  Silence!"  said  the  g^^ave  praetor;  "  who  is  there?" 

"The  blind  girl— Nydia,"  answered  Sallust;  "it  is  her  hand 
that  has  raised  Calenus  from  the  grave,  and  delivered  Glaucus 
from  the  lion." 

"  Of  this  hereafter,"  said  the  praetor.  "  Calenus,  priest  of  Isis, 
thou  accusest  Arbaces  of  the  murder  of  Apaecides?" 

"I  do!" 

"Thou  didst  behold  the  deed?" 

**  Praetor — with  these  eyes " 

*•  Enough  at  present — tne  details  must  be  reserved  for  more 


TBB  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEtl.  2t1 

suiting  time  and  place.  Arbaces  of  Egypt,  thou  hearest  the 
charge  against  thee — thou  hast  not  yet  spoken — wliat  hast  thou 
to  say?" 

The  gaze  of  the  crowd  had  been  long  riveted  on  Arbaces;  but 
not  until  the  confusion  which  he  had  betrayed  at  the  first  charge 
of  Sallust  and  the  entrance  of  Calenus  had  subsided.  At  the 
shout,  "Arbaces  to  the  lionl"  he  had  indeed  trembled,  and  the 
dark  bronze  of  his  cheek  had  taken  a  paler  hue.  But  he  had 
soon  recovered  his  haughtiness  and  self-control.  Proudly  he  re- 
turned the  angry  glare  of  the  countless  eyes  around  him;  and  re- 
plying now  to  the  question  of  the  praetor,  he  said,,  in  that  accent 
so  peculiarly  tranquil  and  commanding,  which  characterized  his 
tones — 

"  Praetor,  this  charge  is  so  mad  that  it  scarcely  deserves  reply. 
My  first  accuser  is  the  noble  Sallust — the  most  intimate  friend  of 
Glaucus!  my  second  is  a  priest;  I  revere  his  garb  and  calling — 
but,  people  of  Pompeii!  ye  know  somewhat  of  the  character  of 
Calenus — he  is  griping  and  gold-thirsty  to  a  proverb;  the  witness 
of  such  men  is  to  be  bought!    Praetor,  I  am  innocent!" 

" Sallust,"  said  the  magistrate,  "where  found  you  Calenus?" 
"  In  the  dungeon  of  Arbaces." 

"Egyptian,"  said  the  praetor,  frowning,  "thou  didst,  then, 
dare  to  imprison  a  priest  of  the  gods — and  wherefore?" 

"Hear  me,"  answered  Arbaces,  rising  calmly,  but  with 
agitation  visible  in  his  face.  "  This  man  came  to  threaten  that 
he  would  make  against  me  the  charge  he  has  now  made,  unless 
I  would  purchase  his  silence  with  haK  my  fortune:  I  remon- 
strated— in  vain.  Peace  there— let  not  the  priest  interrupt  me! 
Noble  praetor — and  ye,  O  people!  I  was  a  stranger  in  the  land — I 
knew  myself  innocent  of  crime — but  the  witness  of  a  priest 
against  me  might  yet  destroy  me.  In  my  perplexity  I  decoyed 
him  to  the  cell  whence  he  has  been  released  on  pretense  that  it 
was  the  coffer-house  of  my  gold.  I  resolved  to  detain  him  there 
until  the  fate  of  the  true  criminal  was  sealed,  and  his  threats 
could  avail  no  longer;  but  I  meant  no  worse.  I  may  have  erred — 
but  who  among  ye  "will  not  acknowledge  the  equity  of  self- 
preservation?  Were  I  guilty,  why  was  the  witness  of  this  priest 
silent  at  the  trial? — then  I  had  not  detained  or  concealed  him. 
Why  did  he  not  proclaim  my  guilt  when  I  proclaimed  that  of 
Glaucus?  Praetor,  this  needs  an  answer.  For  the  rest,  I  throw 
myself  on  your  laws,  I  demand  their  protection.  Remove  hence 
the  accused  and  the  accuser.  I  will  willingly  meet,  and  cheer- 
fully abide  by,  the  decision  of  the  legitimate  tribunal.  This  is 
no  place  for  further  parley." 

"  He  says  right,"  said  the  praetor.  "  Ho!  guards— remove 
Arbaces — guard  Calenus!  Sallust,  we  hold  you  responsible  for 
your  accusation.     Let  the  sports  he  resumed." 

"What!"  cried  Calenus,  turning  round  to  the  people,  "shall 
Isis  be  thus  contemned?  Shall  the  blood  of  Apaecides  yc  t  cry  for 
vengeance?  Shall  justice  be  delayed  now,  that  it  may  be 
frustrated  hereafter?  Shall  the  lion  be  cheated  of  lawful  prey? 
A  god  I  a  god!  I  feel  the  god  rush  to  my  lips!  To  the  lion— to  the 
*wn  mth  Arbacesr 


«78  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII, 

His  exhausted  frame  could  su])port  no  longer  the  ferocious 
malice  of  the  priest;  he  sank  on  the  ground  In  strong  con- 
vulsions; the  foam  gathered  to  his  mouth;  he  was  as  a  man, 
indeed,  whom  a  supernatural  power  had  entered  I  The  people 
saw,  and  shuddered. 

"It  is  a  god  that  inspires  the  holy  man!  To  the  lion  with  the 
Egyptianr 

With  that  cry  up  sprang,  on  moved,  thousands  upon  thousands! 
They  rushed  from  the  hights;  they  noured  down  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Egpytian.  In  vain  did  the  eedile  command ;  in  vain 
did  the  praetor  lift  his  voice  and  proclaim  the  law.  The  people 
had  been  already  rendered  savage  by  the  exhibition  of  olood; 
they  thirsted  for  more;  their  superstition  was  aided  by  their 
ferocity.  Aroused,  inflamed  by  the  spectacle  of  their  victims, 
they  forgot  the  authority  of  their  rulers.  It  was  one  of  those 
dread  popular  convulsions  common  to  crowds  wholly  ignorant, 
half  free  and  half  servile,  and  which  the  peculiar  constitution  of 
the  Roman  provinces  so  frequently  exhibited.  The  power  of  the 
praetor  was  a  reed  beneath  the  whirlwind;  still,  at  his  word  the 
guards  had  drawn  themselves  along  the  lower  benches,  on  which 
the  upper  classes  sat  separate  from  the  vulgar.  They  made  but 
a  feeble  barrier;  the  waves  of  the  human  sea  halted  for  a  mo- 
ment, to  enable  Arbaces  to  count  the  exact  moment  of  his  doom! 
In  despair,  and  in  a  terror  which  beat  down  even  pride,  he 
glanced  his  eyes  over  the  rolling  and  rushing  crowd;  when,  right 
above  them,  through  the  wide  chasm  which  had  been  left  in  the 
velaria,  he  beheld  a  strange  and  awful  apparition;  he  beheld;  and 
his  craft  restored  his  courage! 

He  stretched  his  hand  on  high;  over  his  lofty  brow  and  royal 
features  there  came  an  expression  of  unutterable  solemnity  and 
command. 

"Behold!"  he  shouted  with  a  voice  of  thunder,  which  stilled 
the  roar  of  the  crowd:  "behold  how  the  gods  protect  the  guilt- 
less! The  fires  of  the  avenging  Orcus  burst  forth  against  the  false 
witness  of  my  accusers!" 

The  eyes  of  the  crowd  followed  the  gesture  of  the  Egyptian, 
and  beheld,  with  dismay,  a  vast  vapor  shooting  from  the  summit 
of  Vesuvius  in  tlie  form  of  a  gigantic  pine-tree;  the  tnmk,  black- 
ness— the  branches  fire! — a  fire  that  shifted  and  wavered  in  its 
hues  with  every  moment,  now  fiercely  luminous,  now  of  a  dull 
and  dying  red,  that  again  blazed  terrifically  forth  with  intoler- 
able glare! 

There  was  a  dead,  heart-sunken  silence;  through  which  there 
suddenly  broke  the  roar  of  the  lion,  which  was  echoed  back  from 
within  the  building  by  the  sharper  and  fiercer  yells  of  its  fellow- 
beast.  Dread  seers  were  they  of  the  Burden  of  the  Atmosphere, 
and  wild  prophets  of  the  wrath  to  come! 

Then  tliere  arose  on  high  the  universal  shrieks  of  women;  the 
men  stared  at  each  other;  but  were  dumb.  At  that  moment 
they  felt  tlie  earth  shake  under  their  feet;  the  walls  of  the  theater 
trembled;  and,  beyond  in  the  distance,  they  heard  the  crash  of 
falling  roofs;  an  instant  more,  and  the  mountain  cloud  seemed 
to  roll  toward  them,  darh^nd  rapid,  hke  a  torrent:  at  the  Earn? 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEIT.  27d 

time,  it  ca^  forth  from  its  bosom  a  shower  of  ashes  mixed  with 
vast  fragments  of  burning  stone  I  over  the  crushing  vines,  over 
the  desolate  streets,  over  the  amphitheater  itself;  far  and  wide, 
with  many  a  mighty  splash  in  the  agitated  sea,  fell  that  awful 
shower  I 

No  longer  thought  the  crowd  of  "justice  or  of  Arbaces;  safety 
for  themselves  was  their  sole  thought.  Each  turned  to  fly — each 
dasliing,  pressing,  crushing  against  the  other.  Trampling  reck- 
lessly over  the  fallen;  amid  groans,  and  oaths  and  prayers,  and 
sudden  slirieks,  the  enormous  crowd  vomited  itself  forth  through 
the  numerous  passages.  Whither  should  they  fly?  Some  antici- 
pating a  second  earthquake,  hastened  to  their  homes  to  load 
themselves  with  their  more  costly  goods,  and  escape  while  it  was 
yet  time;  others,  dreading  the  showers  of  ashes  that  now  fell 
fast,  torrent  upon  torrent,  over  the  streets,  rushed  under  the 
roofs  of  the  nearest  houses,  or  temples,  or  sheds  (shelter  of  any 
kind),  for  protection  from  the  terrors  of  the  open  air.  But 
darker,  and  larger,  and  mightier,  spread  the  cloud  above  them. 
It  was  a  sudden  and  more  ghastly  Night  rushing  upon  the  realm 
of  Noon  1 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  CELL  OP  THE  PRISONER  AND  THE  DEN  OF  THE  DEAD.—KJEIEF 
UNCONSCIOUS  OF  HORROR. 

Stunned  by  his  reprieve,  doubting  that  he  was  awake,  Glaucus 
had  been  led  by  the  officers  of  the  arena  into  a  small  cell  within 
the  walls  of  the  theater.  They  threw  a  loose  robe  over  his  form, 
and  crowded  round  in  congratulation  and  wonder.  There  was 
an  impatient  and  fretful  cry  without  the  cell;  the  throng  gave 
way,  and  the  blind  girl,  led  by  some  gentler  hand,  flung  herself 
at  the  feet  of  Glaucus. 

"It  is  /who  have  saved  thee,"  she  sobbed;  "now  let  me  die  I" 

"Nydia,  my  child  I  my  preserver  I " 

*'  Oh,  let  me  feel  thy  touch,  thy  breath  I  Yes,  yes,  thou  livest  1 
"We  are  not  too  late!  That  dread  door,  methought  it  would 
never  yidd !  and  Calenus,  oh  I  his  voice  was  as  the  dying  wind 
among  tombs:  we  had  to  wait — gods !  it  seemed  hours  ere  food 
and  wine  restored  to  him  something  of  strength.  But  thou 
livest  I  thou  Uvest  yet  I  and  I— I  have  saved  thee  I " 

This  affecting  scene  was  soon  interrupted  by  the  event  just 
described, 

"  The  mountain!  the  earthquake!"  resovmded  from  side  to  side. 
The  officers  fled  with  the  rest;  they  left  Glaucus  and  Nydia  to 
save  themselves  as  best  they  might. 

As  the  sense  of  tlie  dangers  around  them  flashed  on  the  Athen- 
ian, his  generous  heart  recurred  to  Olinthus.  He,  too,  was  re- 
prieved from  the  tiger  by  the  hand  of  the  gods;  should  he  be  left 
to  a  no  less  fatal  death  in  the  neighboring  cell?  Taking  Nydia  by 
the  hand,  Glaucus  hurried  across  the  passages;  he  gained  the  den 
of  the  Christian.     He  found  Olinthus  kneeling  and  in  prayer. 

"  Arise!  arise!  my  friend,"  lie  cried=  "  Save  thyself,  and  fly! 
Seel  Nature  is  thy  dread  delivererl"    He  led  forth  the  bewilder- 


280  THE  LAST  DA  78  OF  POMPEH. 

ed  Christian,  and  pointed  to  a  cloud  which  advanced  darkei  and 
darker,  disgorging  forth  showers  of  ashes  and  pumice  stonesi— 
and  bade  him  hearken  to  the  cries  and  trampling  rush  of  the 
scattered  crowd. 

"  This  is  the  hand  of  God — God  be  praisedl"  said  Olinthus,  de« 
Toutly. 

"Fly  I  seek  thy  brethren  I  Concert  with  them  thy  escape. 
Farewell  I" 

Olinthus  did  not  answer,  neither  did  he  mark  the  retreating 
form  of  his  friend.  High  thoughts  and  solemn  absorbed  his  soul: 
and  in  the  enthusiasm  of  his  kindling  heart,  he  exulted  in  the 
mercy  of  God  rather  than  trembled  at  the  evidence  of  His  power. 

At  length  he  roused  himself,  and  hurried  on,  he  scarce  knew 
whither. 

The  open  doors  of  a  dark,  desolate  cell  suddenly  am)eared  on 
his  path;  through  the  gloom  within  there  flared  and  mckered  a 
single  lamp;  and  by  its  light  he  saw  the  grim  and  naked  forms 
stretched  on  the  earth  in  death.  His  feet  were  suddenly  arrest- 
ed; for  amid  the  terrors  of  that  dread  recess— the  spoliarium  of 
the  arena — he  heard  a  low  voice  calling  on  the  name  of  Christ  I 

He  could  not  resist  lingering  at  that  appeal;  he  entered  a  den, 
and  his  feet  were  dabbled  in  the  slow  streams  of  blood  that  gush- 
ed from  the  corpses  over  the  sand. 

•*  Who,"  said  the  Nazarene,  "  calls  upon  the  Son  of  God?'* 

No  answer  came  forth;  and  turning  round  Olinthus  beheld,  by 
the  light  of  the  lamp,  an  old  gray-headed  man  sitting  on  the 
floor,  and  supporting  in  his  lap  the  head  of  one  of  the  dead.  The 
features  of  the  dead  man  were  firmly  and  rigidly  locked  in  the 
last  sleep;  but  over  the  lip  there  played  a  fierce  smile — not  the 
Christian's  smile  of  hope,  but  the  dark  sneer  of  hatred  and  de- 
fiance. Yet  on  the  face  still  lingered  the  beautiful  roundness  of 
early  youth.  The  hair  curled  thick  and  glossy  over  the  un- 
wrinkled  brow;  and  the  down  of  manhood  but  slightly  shaded 
the  marble  of  the  hueless  cheek.  And  over  this  face  bent  one  of 
such  unutterable  tenderness — of  such  fond,  and  such  deep  de- 
spairl  The  tears  of  the  old  man  fell  fast  and  hot,  but  he  did  not 
feel  them;  and  when  his  lips  moved,  and  he  mechanically  uttered 
the  prayer  of  his  benign  and  hopeful  faith,  neither  his  heart  nor 
his  sense  responded  to  the  words;  it  was  but  the  involuntary 
emotion  that  broke  from  the  lethargy  of  his  mind.  His  boy  was 
dead,  and  had  died  for  him!— and  the  old  man's  heart  was 
broken  I 

"MedonI*'  said  Olinthus,  pityingly,  "arise  and  flyl  God  is 
forth  upon  the  wings  of  the  elements  1  The  new  Gomorrah  is 
doomed!    Fly,  ere  the  fires  consume  thee!" 

♦•  He  was  ever  so  full  of  life  I  he  can  not  be  dead  1  Come  hither  I 
place  your  hand  on  this  heart !  sure  it  beats  yet !  " 

"Brother,  the  soul  has  fled!  we  will  remember  it  in  our 
prayers!  Tliou  canst  not  reanimate  the  dumb  clay!  Come, 
come — hark !  while  I  speak,  yon  crashing  walls  !  hark  1  yon 
agonizing  cries  I    Not  a  moment  is  to  be  lost  1    Come  !" 

"  I  hear  nothing !"  said  Medon,  shaking  his  gray  hair.  **  The 
poor  boy,  his  love  murdered  him  I " 


THE  LAST  DAIS  OF  POMPEII,  281 

**  Come !  come  I  forgive  this  friendly  force." 

*' What  I  who  would  sever  the  father  from  the  eon?"  And 
Medon  clasped  the  body  tightly  in  his  embrace,  and  covered  it 
up  with  passionate  kisses.  "  Go  !  "  said  he,  lifting  up  his  face  for 
one  moment.     *'  Go  !    We  must  be  alone  ! " 

"Alasl"  said  the  compassionate  Nazarene.  "Death  hath 
severed  ye  already  !" 

The  old  man  smiled  very  calmly.  '*  No,  no,  no  !  "  he  muttered, 
his  voice  growing  lower  with  each  word,  "Death  hath  been 
more  kind  I " 

With  that  his  head  dropped  on  his  son's  breast— his  arms  re- 
laxed their  grasp.  Olinthus  caught  him  by  the  hand— the  pulse 
had  ceased  to  beat  I  The  last  words  of  the  fainted  father  were 
the  words  of  trutli— Death  hath  been  more  kind. 

Meanwhile  Glaucus  and  Nydia  were  pacing  swiftly  up  the 
perilous  and  fearful  streets.  The  Athenian  had  learned  from  his 
preserver  that  lone  was  yet  in  the  house  of  Arbaces.  Thither  he 
fled,  to  release— to  save  her  !  The  few  slaves  whom  the  Egyptian 
had  left  at  his  mansion  when  he  had  repaired  in  long  procession 
to  the  amphitheater,  had  been  able  to  offer  no  resistance  to  the 
armedbandofSallust;  and  when  afterward  the  volcano  broke 
forth,  they  huddled  together,  stunned  and  frightened,  in  the  in- 
most recesses  of  the  house.  Even  the  tall  Ethiopian  had  forsaken 
his  post  at  the  door;  and  Glaucus  (who  left  Nydia  without— the 
poor  Nydia,  jealous  onc43  more,  even  in  such  an  hour  !)  passed  on 
through  the  vast  hall  without  meeting  one  to  learn  the  chamber 
of  lone.  Even  as  he  passed,  however,  the  darkness  that  covered 
the  heavens  increased  so  rapidly  that  it  was  with  difficulty  he 
could  guide  his  steps.  The  flower-wreathed  columns  seemed  to 
reel  and  tremble;  and  every  instant  he  heard  the  ashes  fall 
crunchmgly  into  the  roofless  peristyle.  He  ascended  to  the  upper 
rooms— breathless  he  paced  along,  shouting  out  aloud  the  name 
of  lone,  and  at  length  he  heard,  at  the  end  of  a  gallery  a  voice— 
her  voice,  in  wondering  reply  !  To  rush  forward— to  shatter  the 
door- to  seize  lone  in  his  arms— to  hurry  from  the  mansion- 
seemed  to  him  the  work  of  an  instant !  Scarce  had  he  gained  the 
spot  where  Nydia  was,  than  he  heard  footsteps  advancing  toward 
the  house,  and  recognized  the  voice  of  Arbaces,  who  had  re- 
turned to  seek  his  wealth  and  lone  ere  he  fled  from  the  doomed 
Pompeii.  But  so  dense  was  already  the  reeking  atmosphere, 
^at  the  foes  saw  not  each  other,  though  so  near— save  that, 
dimly  in  the  gloom,  Glaucus  caught  the  moving  outline  of  the 
snowy  robes  of  the  Egyptian. 

They  hastened  onward— those  three  I  Alas!— whither?  They 
now  saw  not  a  step  before  them— the  blackness  became  utter. 
They  were  encompassed  with  doubt  and  horror,  and  the  death 
he  had  escaped  seemed  to  Glaucus  only  to  J^ave  changed  its  form 
wad  autfTuented  its  victims. 


268  rna  last  days  of  pompeil 


CHAPTER  VI. 

OALENTTS  AKD   BURBO.— DIOMED  AND  CLODIUS.— THE  •IKL  ©P  ^XR 
AMPHITHEATER  AND  JULIA. 

The  sudden  catastrophe  which  had,  as  it  were,  riven  the  very 
bonds  of  society,  and  left  the  prisoner  and  jailer  alike  free,  had 
soon  rid  Calenus  of  the  guards  to  whose  care  the  praetor  had  con- 
signed him.  And  when  the  darkness  and  the  crowd  separated 
the  priest  and  his  attendants,  he  hastened  with  trembling  steps 
toward  the  temple  of  his  goddess.  As  he  crept  along,  and  ere 
the  darkness  was  complete,  he  felt  himself  suddenly  caught  by 
the  robe,  and  a  voice  muttered  in  hiB  ear: 

"HistI  CalenusI  an  awful  hourl"' 

"Ay!  by  my  father's  head  I  who  art  thou?  thy  face  is  dim  and 
thy  voice  is  strange  1" 

"  Not  know  thy  Burbo?  fiel" 

"Gods  I  how  the  darkness  gathers  I  Ho,  ho;  by  yon  terrific 
mountain,  what  sudden  blazes  of  lightning!* 

" How  they  dart  and  quiver!    Hades  is  loosed  on  earth!" 

"  Tush!  thou  belie  vest  not  these  things,  Calenus.  Now  is  the 
time  to  make  our  fortune!" 

"  Ha!" 

"  Listen!  Thy  temple  is  full  of  gold  and  precious  mummeries! 
let  us  load  ourselves  with  them  and  then  hasten  to  the  sea  and 
embark!  None  will  ever  ask  an  account  of  the  doings  of  this  day." 

"  Burbo,  thou  art  right.  Hush!  and  follow  me  into  the  tem- 
ple. Who  3ares,  who  sees  now,  whether  thou  art  a  priest  or  not? 
Follow  and  we  will  share." 

In  the  precincts  of  the  temple  were  niany  priests  gathered 
around  the  altars,  praying,  weeping,  groveling  in  the  dust.  Im- 
postors in  safety,  they  were  none  the  less  superstitious  in  danger. 
Calenus  passed  them,  and  entered  the  chamber  yet  to  be  seen  in 
south  side  of  the  court.  Burbo  followed  him — the  priest  struck 
a  light.  Wine  and  viands  strewed  the  table;  the  remains  of  a 
sacrificial  feast. 

*'A  man  who  was  hungered  forty-eight  hours,"  muttered 
Calenus,  "  has  an  appetite  even  in  such  a  time."  He  seized  on 
the  food,  and  devoured  it  greedily.  Nothing  could,  perhaps,  be 
more  unnaturally  horrid  than  the  selfish  baseness  of  these  villains; 
for  there  is  nothing  more  loathsome  than  valor  of  avarice.  Plun- 
der and  sacrilege  while  the  pillars  of  the  world  tottered  •  to  and 
fro!  What  an  increase  to  the  terrors  of  nature  can  be  made  by 
the  vices  of  man!" 

"  Wilt  thou  never  have  done?"  said  Burbo,  impatiently;  "thy 
face  purples  and  thine  eyes  start  already." 

"It  is  not  every  day  one  has  such  a  riglit  to  be  hungry.  Oh, 
Jupiter!  what  sound  is  that? — the  hissing  of  fiery  water!  What! 
does  the  cloud  give  rain  as  well  as  flame!  Ha! — what!  shrieks? 
And  Burbo,  how  silent  all  is  now!    Look  forth!" 

♦Volcanic  lightnings.  These  phenoiiiona  were  especially  the  character- 
istics of  the  long  subsequent  eruption  of  17'.)0,  and  their  evidence  is  visi- 
bl«  in  the  tokens  of  that  more  awful  one,  now  so  imperfectly  described 


TSB  LAST  DATS  OF  POMPJEII.  283 

Amid  the  other  horrors,  the  mighty  mountain  now  cast  up 
columns  of  boiling  water.  Blent  and  kneaded  with  the  haK- 
burning  ashes,  the  streams  fell  like  seething  mud  over  the  streets 
in  frequent  intervals.  And  full,  where  the  priests  of  Isis  had 
now  cowered  around  the  altars,  on  which  they  had  vainly 
sought  to  kindle  fires  and  pour  incense,  one  of  the  fiercest  of 
those  deadly  torrents,  mingled  with  immense  fragments  of 
scoria,  had  poured  its  rage.  Over  the  bended  forms  of  the  priests 
it  dashed,  that  cry  had  been  of  death — that  silence  had  been  of 
eternity!  The  ashes — the  pitchy  stream — sprinkled  the  altars, 
covered  the  pavement,  and  half  concealed  the  quivering  corpses 
of  the  priests!  ^- 

**They  are  dead,"  said  Burbo,  terrified  for  the  first  time,  and 
hurrying  back  into  the  cell,  "  I  thought  not  the  danger  was  so 
near  and  fatal." 

The  two  wretches  stood  staring  at  each  other — you  might  have 
heard  their  hearts  beat!  Calenus,  the  less  bold  by  nature,  but 
the  most  gripping,  recovered  first. 

"We  must  to  our  task,  and  away!"  he  said  in  a  low  whisper, 
frightened  .  at  his  own  voice.  He  stepped  to  the  threshold, 
paused,  crossed  over  the  heated  floor  and  his  dead  brethren  to  the 
sacred  chapel,  and  called  to  Burbo  to  follow.  But  the  gladiator 
quaked,  and  drew  back. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  thought  Calenus;  "  the  more  will  he  my 
booty."  Hastily  he  loaded  himself  with  the  more  portable  treas- 
ures of  the  temple;  and  thinking  no  more  of  his  comrade,  hur- 
ried from  tlie  sacred  place.  A  sudden  flash  of  hghtning  from 
the  mount  showed  to  Burbo,  who  stood  motionless  at  the  thresh- 
old, the  flying  and  laden  form  of  the  priest.  He  took  heart;  he 
stepped  forth  to  join  him,  when  a  tremendous  shower  of  ashes  fell 
right  before  his  feet.  The  gladiator  shrank  back  once  more.  Dark- 
ness closed  him  in.  But  the  shower  continued  fast — fast;  its 
heaps  rose  high  and  suffocatingly — deathly  vapors  steamed  from 
them.  The  wretch  gasped  for  breath — he  sought  in  despair 
again  to  fly— the  ashes  had  blocked  up  the  thi'eshold — he  shriek- 
ed as  his  feet  slu-ank  from  the  boiling  fluid.  How  could  he  es- 
cape?— he  could  not  climb  to  the  open  space;  nay,  were  he  able, 
he  could  not  brave  its  horrors.  It  were  best  to  remain  in  the 
cell,  protected,  at  least,  from  the  fatal  an*. 

He  sat  down  and  clinched  his  teeth.  By  degrees,  the  atmos- 
phere from  without— stifling  and  venomous  —  crept  into  the 
chamber.  He  could  endure  it  no  longer.  His  eyes,  glaring 
round,  rested  on  a  sacrificial  ax,  which  some  priest  had  left  in 
the  chamber ;  he  seized  it.  With  the  desperate  strength  of  his 
gigantic  arm,  he  attempted  to  hew  his  way  through  the  walls. 

Meanwhile  the  streets  were  already  thinned  ;  the  crowd  had 
hastened  to  disperse  itself  under  shelter  ;  the  ashes  began  to  fill 
up  the  lower  parts  of  the  to^^^l ;  but  here  and  there  you  heard 
the  steps  of  fugitives  crunching  them  wearily,  or  saw  the  pale  and 
haggard  faces  by  the  blue  glare  of  the  lightning,  or  the  more  un- 
steady glare  of  torches,  by  which  they  endeavored  to  steer  their 
steps.  But  ever  and  anon,  the  boiling  water,  or  the  straggUng 
ashes,  mysterious  and  gusty  winds,  rising  and  dying  in  a  breath, 


«M  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEH, 

extinguished  these  wandering  lights,  and  with  them  the  last  Ht- 
ing  hope  of  those  who  bore  them. 

In  the  street  tl.at  leads  to  the  gate  of  Herculaneum,  Clodiua 
now  bent  his  perplexed  and  doubtful  way.  "If  I  can  gain  the 
open  country,"  thought  he,  "doubtless  there  will  be  various 
vehicles  beyond  the  gate,  and  Herculaneum  is  not  far  distant. 
Thank  Mercury  !    I  have  little  to  lose,  and  that  little  about  me!" 

"Hollo  ! — help  there — help  1"  cried  a  querulous  and  friglitened 
voice.  "  I  have  fallen  do\vn — my  torch  has  gone  out — my  slaves 
have  deserted  me.  I  am  Diomed — the  rich  Diomed — ten  thou- 
sand sesterces  to  him  who  helps  me  I" 

At  the  same  moment  Clodius  fell  himself,  caught  by  the  feet. 
"  111  fortune  to  thee — ^let  me  go,  fool  1"  said  the  gambler. 

"Oh,  help  me;  give  me  thy  hand  1"    > 

"  There— rise !" 

"  Is  this  Clodius  ?    I  know  thy  voice  !    Whither  fliest  thou  7* 

"  Toward  Herculaneum." 

"  Blessed  be  the  gods  I  our  way  is  the  same,  then,  as  far  as  the 
gate.  Why  not  take  refuge  in  my  villa  ?  Thou  knowest  the  long 
range  of  subterranean  cellars  beneath  the  basement — ^th at  shelter, 
what  shower  can  penetrate  ?" 

"You  speak  well,  said  Clodius,  musingly.  "And  by  storing 
the  cellar  with  food,  we  can  remain  there  even  some  days,  should 
these  wondrous  storms  endure  so  long." 

"  Oh,  blessed  be  he  who  invented  gates  to  a  city  I"  cried  Dio- 
med. "  See,  they  have  placed  a  light  within  yon  arch ;  by  that 
let  us  guide  our  steps." 

The  air  was  now  still  for  a  few  minutes;  the  lamp  from  the 
gate  streamed  out  far  and  clear;  the  fugitives  hurried  on — they 
gained  the  gate — they  passed  by  the  Roman  sentry;  the  light- 
ning flashed  over  his  livid  face  and  polished  helmet,  but  liis  stern 
features  were  composed  even  in  his  awe!  He  remained  erect 
and  motionless  at  his  post.  That  hour  itself  had  not  animated 
the  machine  of  the  ruthless  majesty  of  Rome,  into  the  reason- 
ing and  self-acting  man.  There  he  stood,  amid  the  crashing  ele- 
ments; he  had  not  received  the  permission  to  desert  his  station 
and  escape.* 

Diomed  and  his  co/npanion  hurried  on,  when  suddenly  a  fe- 
male form  rushed  athwart  their  way.  It  was  Ihe  girl  whoso 
ominous  voice  had  been  raised  so  often  and  so  gladly  in  anticipa- 
tion of  "  the  merry  show!" 

"Oh  Diomed!"  she  cried,  "shelter!  shelter!  See,"  pointing  to 
an  infant  clasped  to  her  breast,  "see  this  little  one!  it  is  mine! 
the  child  of  shame!  I  have  never  owned  it  till  this  hour.  But 
iiow  I  remember  I  am  a  mother!  I  have  plucked  it  from  the 
cradle  of  its  nurse;  she  had  fled!  Wlio  could  think  of  the  babe 
in  such  an  hour  but  she  who  bore  it?  save  it!  save  it!" 

"  Curses  on  thy  shrill  voice!  Away,  harlot!"  muttered  Clodius 
between  his  ground  teeth. 

"  Nay,  girl,"  said  the  more  humane  Diomed;  "  follow  if  thoq 
wilt.     This  way — this  way — to  the  vaults!" 

*  The  skeletons  of  more  than  one  sentry  were  found  at  their  posts. 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII,  285 

They  hurried  on;  they  arrived  at  the  house  of  Diomed;  they 
laughed  aloud  as  they  crossed  the  threshhold,  for  they  deemed 
the  danger  over. 

Diomed  ordered  his  slaves  to  carry  down  into  the  subterranean 
gallery,  before  described,  a  profusion  of  food  and  oil  for  lights; 
and  there  Julia,  Clodius,  the  mother  and  her  babe,  the  greater 

Sart  of  the  slaves,  and  some  frightened  visitors  and  clients  o 
tie  neighborhood  sought  their  shelter. 


CHAPTER  VTL 

THE  PROGRESS  OF  THE  DESTRUCTION. 

The  cloud,  which  had  scattered  so  deep  a  murkiness  over  thi. 
day  had  now  settled  into  a  solid  and  impenetrable  mass.  It  re- 
sembled less  even  the  thickest  gloom  of  a  night  in  the  open  air 
than  the  close  and  blind  darkness  of  some  narrow  room.  But  in 
proportion  as  the  blackness  gathered,  did  the  lightnings  around 
Vesuvius  increase  in  their  vivid  and  scorching  glare.  Nor  was 
their  horrible  beauty  confined  to  the  usual  hues  of  fire;  no  rain- 
bow ever  rivaled  their  varying  and  prodigal  dyes.  Now  brightly 
blue  as  the  most  azure  depth  of  a  southern  sky — now  of  a  livid 
and  snake  like  green,  darting  restlessly  to  and  fro  as  the  folds  of 
an  enormous  serpent — ^now  of  a  lurid  and  intolerable  crimson, 
gushing  forth  through  the  columns  of  smoke,  far  and  wide,  and 
lighting  up  the  whole  city  from  arch  to  arch — then  suddenly  dy- 
ing into  a  sickly  paleness,  like  the  ghost  of  their  own  life! 

In  the  pauses  of  the  showers,  you  heard  the  rumbling  of  the 
earth  beneath,  and  the  groaning  waves  of  the  tortured  sea;  or, 
lovv^er  still,  and  audible  but  to  the  watch  of  intensest  fear,  the 
grinding  and  hissing  murmur  of  the  escaping  gases  through  the 
chasms  of  the  distant  mountain.  Sometimes  the  cloud  appeared 
to  break  from  its  solid  mass,  and,  by  the  lightning,  to  assume 
(juaint  and  vast  mimicries  of  human  or  of  monster  shapes,  sti'id- 
ing  across  the  gloom,  hurtling  one  upon  the  other,  and  vanishing 
swiftly  into  the  turbulent  abyss  of  shade;  so  that,  to  the  eyes  and 
fancies  of  the  affrighted  wanderers,  the  unsubstantial  vapors 
were  as  the  bodily  forms  of  gigantic  foes— the  agents  of  teiTor 
and  death. 

The  ashes  in  many  places  were  already  knee-deep;  and  the  boil- 
ing showers  which  came  from  the  steaming  breath  of  the  volcano 
forced  their  waj^  into  the  houses,  bearing  with  them  a  strong  and 
suffocating  vapor.  lu  some  places,  immense  fragments  of  rock, 
hurled  upon  the  house  roofs,  bore  dowTi  along  the  streets  masses 
of  confused  ruin,  which  yet  more  and  more,  with  every  hour, 
obstructed  the  way;  and,  as  the  day  advanced,  the  motion  of  the 
earth  was  more  sensibly  felt — the  footing  seemed  to  slide  and 
creep — nor  could  chariot  or  litter  be  kept  steady,  even  on  the 
most  level  ground. 

Sometimes  the  huger  stones  striking  against  each  other  as  they 
feU,  broke  into  countless  fragments,  emitting  sparks  of  fire^ 
which  caught  whatever  was  combustible  within  their  reach;  and 
along  the  plains  beyond  the  city  the  darkness  was  now  terribly 
relieved;  for  several  houses,  and  even  vineyards,  had  been  seb  in 


286  THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  P03IPEIT. 

ftames;  and  at  various  intervals,  the  fires  rose  sullenly  and  fiercely 
against  the  solid  gloom.  To  add  to  this  partial  relief  of  the  dark- 
ness, the  citizens  had,  here  and  there,  in  the  more  public  places, 
such  as  the  porticos  of  temples  and  the  entrances  to  the  forum, 
endeavored  to  place  rows  of  torches;  but  these  rarely  continued 
long;  the  showers  and  the  winds  extinguished  them,  and  the  sud- 
den darkness  into  which  their  fitful  light  was  converted  had 
Bometliing  in  it  doubly  terrible  and  doubly  impressive  on  the  im- 
potence of  human  hoi)es,  the  lesson  of  desjjair. 

Frecjuently,  by  the  momentary  light  of  these  torches,  parties 
of  fugitives  encountered  each  other,  some  hurrying  toward  the 
sea,  others  flying  from  the  sea  back  to  the  land;  for  the  ocean 
had  retreated  rapidly  from  the  shore — an  utter  darkness  lay  over 
it,  and,  upon  its  groaning  and  tossing  waves,  the  storm  of  cin- 
ders and  rocks  fell  without  the  protection  wliich  the  streets  and 
roofs  afforded  to  the  land.  Wild — haggard — ghastly  with  super- 
natural fears,  these  gi-oups  encoimtered  each  other,  but  without 
the  leisure  to  speak,  to  consult,  to  advise;  for  the  showers  fell 
frequently,  though  not  continuously,  extinguishing  the  lights, 
which  showed  to  each  band  the  death-like  faces  of  the  other,  and 
hurrying  all  to  seek  refuge  beneath  the  nearest  shelter.  The 
whole  elements  of  civilization  •  were  broken  up.  Ever  and  anon, 
by  the  flickering  lights,  you  saw  the  thief  hastening  by  the  most 
solemn  authorities  of  the  law,  laden  with  and  fearfully  chuckling 
over  the  produce  of  his  sudden  gains.  If  in  the  darkness,  wife 
was  separated  from  husband,  or  parent  from  child,  vain  was  the 
hope  of  reunion.  Each  hurried  blindly  and  confusedly  on.  Noth- 
ing in  all  the  various  and  complicated  machinery  of  social  life 
was  left  save  the  primal  law  of  self-preservation  I 

Through  this  awful  scene  did  the  Athenian  wade  his  way,  ac- 
companied by  lone  and  the  blind  girl.  Suddenly,  a  rush  of  hun- 
dreds, in  their  path  to  the  sea,  swept  by  them.  Nydia  was  torn 
from  the  side  of  Glaucus,  who,  with  lone,  was  borne  rapidly  on- 
ward; and  when  the  crowd  (whose  forms  they  saw  not,  so  thick 
was  the  gloom)  was  gone,  Nydia  was  still  separated  from  their 
side.  Glaucus  shouted  her  name.  No  answer  came.  They  re- 
traced their  steps — in  vain:  they  could  not  discover  her — it  was 
evident  she  had  been  swept  along  in  some  opposite  direction  by 
the  human  current.  Their  friend,  their  preserver,  was  lost!  And 
hitherto  Nydia  had  been  their  guide.  Her  blindness  rendered  the 
scene  familiar  to  her  alone.  Accustomed,  through  a  perpetual 
night  to  thread  the  windings  of  the  city,  she  hatl  led  them  un- 
erringly toward  the  sea-shore,  by  which  they  had  resolved  to 
hazard  an  escape.  Now,  which  way  could  they  wend?  all  was 
rayless  to  them — a  maze  v^ithout  a  clew.  Wearied,  desixmdent, 
bewildered,  they,  however,  passed  along,  the  ashes  falling  upon 
their  heads,  the  fragmentary  stones  dashing  up  in  sparkles  at 
their  feet. 

*'  Alasl  alas!"  murmured  lone,  *'I  can  go  no  farth^;  my  steps 
sink  among  the  scorching  cinders.  Fl}^  dearest!— beloved,  flyl 
and  leave  me  to  my  fate!'' 

"  Hush,  my  betrothed!  my  bride!  Death  with  thee  is  sweeter 
Itan  life  vdthout  thee!  Yet,  whithf^r— oh!  whither,  can  we  dii-ect 


TffE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPEH.  2&t 

©urselves  through  the  g/oom?  Already,  it.  seems  that  we  have 
made  but  a  circle,  and  are  in  the  very  spot  which  we  quitted  au 
hour  ago." 

*'  O  gods!  yon  rock — see,  it  hath  riven  the  roof  before  us  I  It 
is  death  to  move  through  the  streets!" 

"  Blessed  lightning!  See,  lone  -see!  the  portico  of  the  Temple 
of  Fortune  is  before  us.  Let  us  creep  beneath  it;  it  will  protect 
us  from  the  showers." 

He  caught  his  beloved  in  his  arms,  and  with  difficulty  and 
labor  gained  the  temple.  He  bore  her  to  the  remoter  and  more 
sheltered  part  of  the  portico,  and  leaned  over  her,  that  he  might 
shield  her,  with  his  own  form,  from  the  lightning  and  the  show- 
ers I  The  beauty  and  unselfishness  of  love  could  hallow  even 
that  dismal  time! 

"Who  is  there?"  said  the  trembling  and  hollow  voice  of  one 
who  had  preceded  them  in  their  place  of  refuge.  "Yet,  what 
matters?  the  crush  of  the  ruined  world  forbids  us  to  be  friends  or 
foes." 

lone  turned  at  the  sound  of  the  voice,  and,  with  a  faint  shriek, 
cowered  again  beneath  the  arms  of  Glaucus;  and  he,  looking  in 
the  direction  of  the  voice,  beheld  the  cause  of  her  alarm. 
Through  the  dai'kness  glared  forth  two  burning  eyes — the  light- 
ning flashed  and  lingered  athwart  the  temple — and  Glaucus,  with 
a  shudder,  perceived  the  lion  to  which  he  had  been  doomed 
couched  beneath  the  pillars;  and,  close  beside  it,  unwitting  of 
the  vicinity,  lay  the  giant  form  of  him  who  had  accosted  them — 
the  wounded  gladiator,  IJiger. 

The  lightning  had  revealed  to  each  other  the  form  of  beast  and 
man;  yet  the  instinct  of  both  was  quelled.  Nay,  the  Hon  crept 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  gladiador  as  for  companionship;  and 
the  gladiator  did  not  recede  or  tremble.  The  revolution  of  Nat- 
ure had  dissolved  her  lighter  teiTors  as  well  as  her  wonted  ties. 

While  they  were  thus  tenibly  protected,  a  group  of  men  and 
women,  bearing  torches,  passed  by  the  temple.  They  were  of 
the  congregation  of  the  Nazarenes;  and  a  subhme  and  unearthly 
emotion  had  not,  indeed,  quelled  their  awe,  but  it  had  robbed 
awe  of  fear.  They  had  long  beheved,  according  to  the  error  of 
the  early  Christians,  that  the  Last  Day  was  at  hand;  they  ima- 
gined now  that  the  Day  had  come. 

"Woe!  woe!"  cried,  in  a  shrill  and  piercing  voice,  the  elder  at 
their  head,  "Behold!  the  Lord  descendeth  to  judgment!  He 
maketh  fii'e  come  down  from  heaven  in  the  sight  of  men!  Woe! 
ye  strong  and  mighty  I  We  to  ye  of  the  fasces  and  the  purple! 
Woe  to  the  idolator  and  the  worshiper  of  the  beast!  Woe  to  ye 
who  pour  forth  the  blood  of  saints,  and  gloat  over  the  death- 
pangs  of  the  sons  of  Godl  Woe  to  the  hai'lot  of  the  seal— woel 
woe:" 

And  with  a  loud  and  deep  chorus,  the  troop  chanted  forth 
along  the  wild  horrors  of  the  air — "  Woe  to  the  harlot  of  the  seal 
—woe!  woe! — " 

The  Nazarenes  paced  slowly  on,  their  torches  still  flickering  in 
ibie  storm,  their  voices  still  raised  in  menace  and  solemn  warning. 


288  THE  LAST.  DAYS  OF  POMPEH. 

till,  lost  amid  the  windings  in  tlie  streets,  the  darkness  of  the  at- 
mosphere and  the  Bilonce  of  death  again  fell  over  the  scene. 

Thei-e  was  one  of  the  frequent  pauses  in  the  showers,  andGlau- 
cus  encouraged  lone  once  more  to  proceed.  Just  as  they  stood, 
hesitating,  on  the  last  step  of  the  tlie  portico,  an  old  man  with 
a  bag  in  his  right  hand  and  leaning  upon  a  youth,  tottered  by. 
The  youth  bore  a  torch.  Glaucus  recognized  the  two  as  father 
and  son — miser  and  i^rodigal. 

*' Father,"  said  the  youth,  *'if  you  cannot  move  more  swiftly, 
I  must  leave  you,  or  we  both  perish!" 

"Fly,  boy,  then,  and  leave  thy  sirel" 

•'But  I  cannot  fly  to  starve;  give  me  thy  bag  of  goldl"  And  the 
youth  snatclied  at  it. 

'*  Wretch!  wouldst  thou  rob  thy  father?* 

"All!  who  can  tell  the  tale  in  this  houi"?  IMiser,  perish!" 

The  boy  struck  the  old  man  to  the  gi'ound,  plucked  the  bag 
from  his  relaxing  hand,  and  fled  onward  with  a  shrill  yell. 

"Ye  gods!"  cried  Glaucus:  *'are  ye  blind,  then,  even  in  the 
dark?  Such  crimes  may  well  confound  the  guiltless  with  the  guilty 
in  one  common  ruiru    lone,  on! — on  I" 


CHAPTER  VUL 

AKBACES  ENCOUNTERS  GLAUCUS  AND  lONE. 

Advancing,  as  men  gi-ope  for  escape  in  a  dungeon,  lone  and  her 
lover  continued  theii'  uncertain  way.  At  the  moments  when  the 
volcanic  lightnings  lingered  over  the  streets,  they  were  enabled, 
by  that  awful  light,  to  steer  and  guide  their  progress:  yet,  little 
did  the  view  it  presented  to  them  cheer  or  encourage  their  path. 
In  parts,  where  the  ashes  lay  diy  and  uncommixed  with  the  boil- 
ing torrents,  cast  upward  from  the  mountain  at  capricious  inter- 
vEds,  the  surface  of  the  earth  presented  a  leprous  and  ghastly 
white.  In  other  places,  cinders  and  rock  lay  matted  in  heaps, 
from  beneath  which  emerged  the  half-hid  limbs  of  some  crushed 
and  mangled  fugitive.  The  groans  of  the  dying  were  broken  by 
wild  shrieks  of  women's  teiTor — now  near,  now  distant — which, 
when  heard  in  the  utter  darkness,  were  rendered  doubly  appalling 
by  the  crushing  sense  of  helplessness  and  the  uncertainty  of  the 
perils  around;  and  clear  and  distinct  through  all  were  the  mighty 
and  various  noises  from  the  Fatal  Mountain;  its  rusliing  winds; 
its  whirling  torrents;  and,  from  time  to  time,  the  burst  and  roar 
of  some  fiery  and  fierce  explosion.  And  ever  as  the  winds  sw^ept 
howling  along  the  street,  they  bore  sharp  streams  of  burning 
dust,  and  sucli  sickening  and  poisonous  vapors,  as  took  away,  for 
the  instant,  breath  and  consciousness,  followed  by  a  rapid  revul- 
sion of  the  an-ested  blood,  and  a  tingUng  sensation  of  agony 
trembling  through  eveiy  nerve  and  fiber  of  the  frame. 

"Oh,  Glaucus!  my  beloved!  my  own!  take  me  to  thy  armsl 
One  embrace!  let  me  feel  thy  arms  aiound  me— and  in  that  em- 
brace let  me  die — I  can  no  more!" 

"For  my  sake,  for  my  life" — courage,  yet,  sweet  lone — my  life 
is  linked  with  thine;  and  see — torches — this  wayl    Lol  how  they 


"THE  LAST  DA  Y8  OF  POMPEIT.  fM 

tarave  the  wind  I  Hal  they  live  through  the  storm— doubtless, 
fugitives  to  the  sea!  we  mil  join  them." 

As  if  to  aid  and  reanimate  the  lovers,  the  winds  and  showers 
came  to  a  sudden  pause;  the  atmosphere  vv^as  profoundly  still — 
the  mountain  seemed  at  rest,  gathering,  perhaps,  fresh  fury  for 
its  next  burst:  the  torch-bearera  moved  quickly  on,  "We  are 
nearing  the  sea,"  said,  in  a  calm  voice,  the  person  at  then-  head. 
"Liberty  and  wealth  to  each  slave  who  survives  this  day;  Cour- 
age! I  tell  you  that  the  gods  themselves  have  assured  me  of  de» 
liverance — On!" 

Redly  and  steadily  the  torches  flashed  fiill  on  the  eyes  of 
Glaucus  and  lone,  who  lay  ti-embUng  and  exhausted  on  his 
bosom.  Several  slaves  were  bearing,  by  the  light,  panniers  and 
coffers,  heavily  laden;  in  front  of  them— a  drawc.  gword  in 
his  hand — towered  the  lofty  form  of  Arbaces. 

" By  my  fathers!"  cried  the  Egyptian.  "Fate  smiles  upon  me 
even  through  these  horrors,  and,  amid  the  dreadest  aspect  of 
woe  and  death,  bodes  me  happiness  and  love.  Away,  Greek!  I 
claim  my  ward,  lone!" 

"Traitor,  and  murderer!"  cried  Glaucus,  glaring  upon  his  foe, 
"  Nemesis  hath  guided  thee  to  my  revenge! — a  just  sacrifice  to  the 
shades  of  Hades,  that  now  seem  loosed  on  earth.  Approach — 
touch  but  the  hand  of  lone,  and  thy  weapon  shall  be  as  a  reed — 
I  will  tear  thee  limb  from  limb!" 

Suddenly,  as  he  spoke,  the  jilace  became  Hghted  with  an  in- 
tense and  lurid  glow.  Bright  and  gigantic  through  the  dark- 
ness, which  closed  around  it  like  the  walls  of  hell,  the  mountain 
shone — a  pile  of  fire!  Its  summit  seemed  riven  in  two;  or 
rather,  above  its  surface  seemed  to  rise  two  monster  shapes,  each 
confronting  each,  as  Demons  contending  for  a  World.  These 
were  of  one  deep  blood-red  hue  of  fire,  which  lighted  up  the 
whole  atmosphere  far  and  wide;  but  helow,  the  nether  part  of 
the  mountain  was  still  dark  and  slu-ouded,  save  in  three  places, 
adown  which  flowed,  serpentine  and  irregular,  rivers  of  the 
molten  lava.  Darkly  red  through  the  profound  gloom  of  their 
banks,  they  flowed  slowly  on,  as  toward  the  devoted  city.  Over 
the  broadest  there  seemed  to  sjDring  a  cragged  and  stupendous 
arch,  from  which,  as  from  the  jaws  of  hell,  gushed  the  sources 
of  the  sunken  Phlegethon.  And  tln-ough  the  stiUed  air  was 
heard  the  rattling  of  the  fragments  of  rock,  hurling  one  upon 
another  as  they  were  borne  down  the  fiery  cataracts--darkening, 
for  one  instant,  the  spot  wiiere  they  fell,  and  suffused  the  next, 
in  the  bui-nished  hues  of  the  flood  along  which  they  floated! 

The  slaves  shrieked  aloud,  and,  cowering,  hid  their  faces.  The 
Egyptian  himself  stood  transfixed  to  the  spot,  the  glow  lighting 
up  bis  commanding  features  and  jeweled  robes.  High  behind 
hun  rose  a  tall  column  that  supported  the  bronze  statue  of  Au- 
gustus; and  the  imperial  image  seemed  changed  to  a  shape  of 

^  With  his  left  hand  circled  round  the  form  of  lone — with  his 
right  arm  raised  in  menace,  and  grasping  the  stilus  which  was 
to  have  been  liis  weapon  in  the  arena,  and  wh'ch  he  still  fortu- 
nately bore  about  him,  with  Ms  brow  knit,  his  lips  apart,  tht 


a^O  'THE  LAST  DA  YS  OF  POUTPmi 

wrath  and  menace  of  human  passions  arrested  as  by  a  charm, 
upon  his  features,  Glaucus  fronted  the  Egj^ptianl 

Arbaces  turned  his  eyes  from  the  mountain — they  rested  on  the 
form  of  GlaucusI  He  paused  a  moment:  *'  Why,"  he  muttered, 
*'  should  I  hesitate?  Did  not  the  stars  foretell  the  only  crisis  of 
imminent  peril  to  which  I  was  subjected? — Is  not  that  oeril 
past?" 

'•  The  soul,"  cried  he  aloud,  '*  can  bravo  the  wreck  of  worlds 
and  the  wrath  of  imaginary  godsl  By  that  soul  will  I  cono[ue^ 
to  the  last!  Advance  slaves  1 — Athenian,  resist  me,  and  thy  biood 
be  on  thine  own  head!    Thus,  then,  I  regain  lonel" 

He  advanced  one  step — it  was  liis  last  on  earth!  The  ground 
shook  beneath  him  with  a  convulsion  that  cast  all  round  upon 
its  surface.  A  simultaneous  crash  resounded  through  the  city, 
as  down  toppled  many  a  roof  and  pillar!  the  lightning,  as  if 
caught  by  the  metal,  lingered  an  instant  on  the  Imperial  Statue 
— then  shivered  bronze  and  column!  Down  fell  the  ruin,  echoing 
along  the  street,  and  riving  the  solid  pavement  where  it  crashedl 
The  prophecy  of  the  stars  was  fulfilled! 

The  sound — the  shock,  stunned  the  Athenian  for  eeveral  mo- 
ments. When  he  recovered,  the  light  still  illumined  the  scene — 
the  earth  still  slid  and  trembled  beneath?  lone  lay  senseless  on 
the  ground;  but  he  saw  her  not  yet — his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a 
ghastly  face  that  seemed  to  emerge,  without  limbs  or  trimk,  from 
the  huge  fragments  of  tlie  shattered  column — a  face  of  unutter- 
able pain,  agony,  and  despair!  The  eyes  shut  and  opened  rapid- 
ly, as  if  sense  were  not  yet  fled;  the  lips  quivered  and  grinned^ 
then  sudden  stillness  and  darkness  fell  over  the  features,  yet  re- 
taining that  aspect  of  horror  never  to  be  forgotten! 

So  perished  the  wise  Magician — the  great  Arbaces — the  Hermit 
of  the  Burning  Belt — the  last  of  the  royalty  of  EgyptI 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  DESPAIR  OP  THE  LOVERS. — THE  CONDITION  OF  THE  MULTITUDE. 

Glaucus  turned  in  gratitude  but  in  awe,,  caught  lone  once 
more  in  his  arms  and  fled  along  the  street,  that  was  yet  intensely 
luminous.  But  suddenly  a  duller  shade  came  over  the  air.  In- 
stinctively he  turned  to  the  mountain,  and  behold!  one  of  the  two 
gigantic  crests,  into  wldch  the  summit  had  been  divided,  rocked 
and  wavered  to  and  fro;  and  then,  with  a  sound,  the  mightiness 
of  which  no  language  can  describe,  it  fell  from  its  burning  base, 
and  rushed,  an  avalanche  of  fire,  down  the  sides  of  the  mount* 
aini  At  the  same  instant  guslied  forth  a  volume  of  blackest 
smoke — rolling  on  over  air,  sea,  and  earth. 

Another — and  another — and  another  shower  of  aslies,  far  more 
profuse  than  before,  scattered  fresh  desolation  along  the  streets. 
Darkness  once  more  wrapi)od  them  in  a  veil;  and  Glaucus,  his 
bold  heart  at  last  quelled  and  desppiiTng,  sank  beneath  the  cover 
of  an  arch,  and,  clasping  lone  to  his  heart — a  bride  on  that  couch 
of  ruin — resigned  himself  to  die. 

Meanwhile  Nydia,  wlien  separated  by  the  throng  from  Glaucus 
and  lone,  had  in  vain  Mideav^red  to  regain  them.    In  vain  she 


Tim  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII  901 

raised  that  plaintive  cry  so  peculiar  to  the  blind;  it  was  lost  amid 
a  thousand  shrieks  of  more  selfish  terror.  Again  and  again  she 
returned  to  the  spot  where  they  had  been  divided — to  find  her 
companions  gone,  to  seize  every  fugitive — to  inquire  of  Glaucus 
— to  Ibe  dashed  aside  in  the  impatience  of  distraction.  Who  in 
that  hour  spared  one  thought  to  his  neighbor? 

Perhaps  in  scenes  of  universal  horror,  nothing  is  more  horrid 
tlian  the  unnatural  selfishness  they  engender.  At  length  it  oc- 
curred to  Nvdia,  that  as  it  had  been  resolved  to  seek  the  sea-shore 
for  escape,  her  most  probable  chance  of  rejoining  her  companions 
would  be  to  persevere  in  that  direction.  Guiding  her  stex)s,  then, 
by  the  staff  which  she  always  caiTied,  she  continued,  with  in- 
credible dexterity,  to  avoid  the  masses  of  ruin  that  encumbered 
the  path — to  thread  the  streets — and  unerringly  (so  blessed  now 
was  that  accustomed  darkness,  so  afflicting  in  ordinary  lifel)  to 
take  tEe  nearest  direction  to  the  sea-side. 

Poor  girll  her  courage  was  beautiful  to  behold — and  Fate  seem- 
ed to  favor  one  so  helpless  I  The  boiling  torrents  touched  her  not, 
save  by  the  general  rain  which  accompanied  them;  and  when  the 
lesser  ashes  fell  over  her,  she  shook  them  away  with  a  slight 
tremor,  and  dauntlessly  resumed  her  course. 

Weak,  exposed,  yet  fearless,  supported  but  by  one  wish,  she 
was  a  very  emblem  of  Psyche  in  her  wanderings;  of  Hope,  walk- 
ing through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow;  of  the  Soul  itself — lone 
but  undaunted,  amid  the  dangers  and  the  snares  of  life. 

Her  path  was,  however,  constantly  impeded  by  the  crowds 
that  now  grouped  amid  the  gloom,  now  fled  in  the  temporary 
glare  of  the  lightnings  across  the  scene;  and  at  length,  a  group 
of  torch  bearers  rushing  full  against  her,  she  was  thrown  down 
with  some  violence. 

*'  What?"  said  the  voice  of  o^e  ot  the  party,  *'  is  this  the  brave 
blind  girl?  Up!  my  Thessalian!  So— so.  Are  you  hm't?  That's 
well  I  Come  along  with  us  I  we  are  for  the  shore!" 

"O  SallustI  it  is  thy  voice!  The  gods  be  thanked!  GlaucusI 
Glaucus  1  have  ye  seen  him?" 

"  Not  I.  He  is  doubtless  out  of  the  city  by  this  time.  The 
^ods  who  saved  him  from  the  lion  will  save  him  from  the  burn- 
ing mountain." 

As  the  kindly  epicure  thus  encouraged  Nydia,  he  drew  her 
along  with  him  toward  the  sea,  heeding  not  her  passionate  en- 
treaties that  he  would  linger  yet  awhile  to  search  for  Glaucus; 
and  still,  in  the  accent  of  despair,  she  continued  to  shriek  out 
that  beloved  name,  which,  amid  all  the  roar  of  the  convulsed 
elements,  kept  alive  a  music  at  her  heart. 

The  sudden  illumination,  the  bui-sts  of  the  floods  of  lava,  and 
the  earthquake,  which  we  have  already  described,  chanced  when 
Ballust  and  his  party  had  just  gained  the  direct  path  leading  from 
tne  city.  They  spread  along  the  field  without  tlie  walls,  thou^ 
sands  upon  thousands,  uncertain  whither  to  fly. 

The  sea  had  retired  far  from  the  shore;  and  they  who  had  fled 
to  it  had  been  so  terrified  by  the  agitation  and  preternatural 
shrinking  of  the  element,  the  gasping  forms  of  the  uncouth  sea- 
things  which  the  waves  had  left  upon  the  sand,  and  by  the  sound 


202  THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEtt 

of  the  huge  stones  cast  from  the  mountain  into  the  deep,  that 
they  had  retired  again  to  the  land,  as  presenting  the  less  fright* 
ful  aspect  of  the  two.  Thus  the  two  streams  of  Iranian  being&, 
the  one  seaward,  the  other /rom  the  sea,  had  met  together,  feel- 
ing a  sad  comfort  in  numbers;  arrested  in  despair  and  doubt. 

"  Tlie  world  is  to  be  destroyed  by  fire,"  said  an  old  man  in  long 
loose  robes,  a  philosopher  of  the  Stoic  school:  "Stoic  and  Epicu- 
rean wisdom  have  alike  agreed  in  this  prediction;  and  the  hour  is 
come!" 

"  Yes;  the  hour  is  comel"  cried  a  loud  voice,  solemn  but  not 
fearful. 

Those  around  turned  in  dismay.  The  voice  came  from  above 
them.  It  ^vas  the  voice  of  OUnthus,  who,  surrounded  by  his 
Christian  friends,  stood  upon  an  abrupt  eminence  on  which  the 
old  Greek  colonists  had  raised  a  temple  to  Apollo,  now  time  worn 
and  half  in  ruins. 

As  he  six>ke,  there  came  that  sudden  illumination  which  had 
heralded  the  death  of  Arbaces,  and  glowing  over  the  mighty 
multitude,  awed,  crouching,  breathless — never  on  earth  had  the 
faces  of  men  seemed  so  haggard! — never  had  meeting  of  mortal 
beings  been  so  stamx)ed  with  the  horror  and  sublimity  of  dread! — 
never  till  tlie  last  trumpet  sounds,  shall  such  meeting  be  seen 
again!  And  above  those  the  form  of  Olinthus,  with  outstretched 
arms  and  prophet  brow,  girt  with  the  living  fires.  And  the 
crowd  knew  the  face  of  him  they  had  doomed  to  the  fangs  of  the 
beast — then  their  victim — now  their  warner;  and  through  the  still- 
ness again  came  his  ominous  voice: 

*'  The  hour  is  come!" 

The  Christians  repeated  the  cry.  It  was  caught  up^it  waa 
echoed  from  side  to  side — woman  and  man,  childhood  and  old 
age  repeated,  not  aloud,  but  in  a  smothered  and  dreary  mur- 
mur: 

"  The  hour  is  come!" 

At  that  moment  a  wild  yell  burst  through  the  air;  and,  think- 
ing only  of  escai)e,  whither  it  knew  not,  the  terrible  tiger  of  thfe 
desert  leaped  among  the  throng  and  hurried  through  its  parted 
streams.  And  so  came  the  earthquake — and  so  darkness  onoe 
more  fell  over  the  earth! 

And  now  new  fugitives  an-ived.  Grasping  the  treasures  no 
longer  destined  for  their  lord,  the  slaves  of  Arbaoes  joined  the 
throng.  Only  one  of  all  their  torches  yet  flickered  on.  It  was 
borne  by  Sosia;  and  its  light  falling  on  the  face  of  Nydia,  he  recog- 
jiized  the  Thesaalian. 

*'  What  avails  thy  liberty  now,  blind  girl?"  said  the  slave. 

**  Who  art  thou?    Canst  thou  tell  me  of  Glaucus?" 

**  Ay;  I  saw  liim  but  a  few  minutes  since." 

'*  Blessed  be  thy  head!  where?" 

*'  Couclied  beneath  the  arch  of  the  forum — dead  or  dyingi— 
gpne  to  rejoin  Arbaces,  who  is  no  more!" 

Nydia  uttered  not  a  word,  she  slid  from  the  side  of  Sallust; 
sOently  she  glided  through  those  behind  her,  and  retraced  her 
steps  to  the  city.  She  gained  the  forum — the  arch;  she  stooped 
<lown — she  felt  round— she  called  oa  the  name  of  Glaucus. 


TBB  LAST  DAYS  OP  POMPEII  §9S 

A  weak  voice  ans'svered — **  Who  calls  on  me?  Is  it  the  voice  of 
the  Shades?    Lol  I  am  prepared!" 

"  Arise,  follow  me  I  Take  my  hand  I  Glaucus,  thou  shalt  be 
eavedl" 

In  wonder  and  sudden  hope,  Glaucus  arose — **  Nydia  still?  Ah  I 
thou,  then,  art  safe!" 

The  tender  joy  of  his  voice  pierced  the  heart  of  the  poor  Thes- 
saliau,  and  she  blessed  him  for  his  thought  of  her. 

Half  leading,  half  carrying  lone,  Glaucus  followed  his  guide. 
With  admii-able  discretion,  she  avoided  the  path  which  led  to 
the  crowd  she  had  just  quitted,  and,  by  another  route,  sought 
the  shore. 

After  many  pauses  aaid  incredible  perseverance,  they  gained 
the  sea,  and  joined  a  group,  who,  bolder  than  the  rest,  resolved 
to  hazard  any  peril  rather  than  continue  in  such  a  scene.  In 
darkness  they  put  forth  to  sea;  but,  as  they  cleared  the  land  and 
caught  new  aspects  of  the  mountain,  its  channel  of  molten  fire 
threw  a  partial  redness  over  the  waves. 

Utterly  exhausted  and  worn  out,  lone  slept  on  the  breast  of 
Glaucus,  and  Nydia  lay  at  his  feet.  IMeanwiiile  the  shower  of 
dust  and  ashes,  still  borne  aloft,  fell  into  the  waves,  and  scat- 
tered the  snows  over  the  deck.  Far  and  wide,  borne  by  the 
winds,  those  showers  descended  upon  the  remotest  climes,  start- 
iing  even  the  swarthy  African,  and  whirled  along  the  antique  soil 
of  Syria  and  of  Egypt. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  NEXT  MORNING — THE  FATE  OF  NYDIA. 

And  meekly,  softly,  beautifully,  dawned  at  last  the  light  over 
the  trembling  deep — the  winds  were  sinking  into  rest — ^the  foam 
died  from  the  glowing  azure  of  that  delicious  sea.  Around  the 
east,  thin  mists  caught  gradually  the  rosy  hues  that  heralded 
the  morning;  Light  was  about  to  resume  her  reign.  Yet,  still, 
dark  and  massive  in  the  distance  lay  the  broken  fragments  oi 
the  destroying  cloud,  from  which  red  streaks,  burning  dimmer 
and  more  dim,  betrayed  the  yet  rolling  fires  of  the  mountain  of 
the  "  Scorched  Fields."  The  white  halls  and  gleaming  columns 
that  had  adorned  the  lovely  coast  were  no  more.  Sullen  and  dull 
were  the  shores  so  lately  crested  by  the  cities  of  Herculaneum 
and  Pompeii.  The  darlings  of  the  Deep  were  snatched  from  her 
embrace!  Century  after  century  shall  the  mighty  Mother 
stretch  forth  her  azure  arms,  and  know  them  not---moaning 
round  the  sepulchers  of  the  Lost, 

There  was  no  sJiout  from  the  mariners  at  the  dawning  light;  it 
had  come  too  gradually,  and  they  were  too  wearied  for  such 
sudden  bursts  of  joy;  JDut  there  was  a  low,  deep  murmur  ot 
thankfulness  amid  those  watchers  of  the  long  night.  They 
looked  at  each  other  and  smiled;  they  took  heart;  they  felt  once 
more  that  there  was  a  world  around,  and  a  God  above  them  I 
And  in  the  feeling  that  the  worst  was  passed,  the  over-wearied 
ones  turned  round,  and  fell  placidly  to  sleep.  In  the  growing 
light  of  the  skies  there  came  the  silence  wliich  night  had  wanted; 


SH  THE  LAST  DA  TS  OF  POMPETl. 

and  the  bark  drifted  calmly  onward  to  its  port.  A  few  othef 
vessels,  bearing  similar  fugitives,  might  be  seen  in  the  expanse, 
apparently  motionless,  yet  gliding  also  on.  There  was  a  sense  of 
security,  or  companionship,  and  of  hope,  in  the  sight  of  their 
slender  masts  and  white  sails.  What  beloved  friends,  lost  and 
missed  in  the  gloom,  might  they  not  bear  to  safety  and  to 
shelterl 

In  the  silence  of  the  general  sleep,  Nydia  rose  gently.  She 
bent  over  the  face  of  Glaucus;  she  inhaJed  the  deep  breath  of  his 
heavy  slumber,  timidly  and  sadly  she  kissed  his  brow,  his  lips; 
ehe  i^elt  for  his  hand,  it  was  locked  in  that  of  lone;  she  sighed 
deeply  and  her  face  darkened.  Again  she  kissed  his  brow,  and 
with  her  hair  wiped  from  it  the  damps  of  night.  "  May  the  gods 
bless  you,  Athenian  I"  she  murmured:  *'  may  you  be  happy  with 
your  beloved  onel  may  you  sometimes  remember  Nydial  Alas! 
she  is  of  no  further  use  on  earth  1" 

With  these  words,  she  turned  away.  Slowly  she  crept  along 
by  the  fori f  or  platforms,  to  the  farther  side  of  the  vessel,  and, 
pausing,  bent  low  over  the  deep;  the  cool  spray  dashed  upward 
on  her  feverish  brow.  "It  is  the  kiss  of  death,"  she  said — **it 
is  welcome."  The  balmy  air  played  through  her  waving  tresses — 
she  put  them  from  her  face,  and  raised  those  eyes — so  tender, 
though  so  lightless — to  the  aky,  whose  soft  face  she  had  never 
seen  I 

**No,  nol"  she  said,  half  aloud,  and  in  a  musing  and 
thoughtful  tone,  '*  I  can  not  endure  it;  this  jealous,  exacting 
love;  it  shatters  my  whole  soul  in  madneesl  I  might  harm  Mm 
again;  wretch  that  I  was  I  I  have  saved  him — twice  saved  him — 
happy,  happy  thought:  why  not  die  happy?  it  is  the  last  glad 
thought  I  can  ever  know.  Oh  I  sacred  Seal  I  hear  thy  voice 
invitmgly,  it  hath  a  freshening  and  jojous  call.  They  say  that 
in  thy  embrace  is  dishonor;  that  thy  victims  cross  not  the  fatal 
Styx;  be  it  sol  I  would  not  meet  him  in  the  Shades,  for  I  should 
meet  him  still  with  her!  Rest — rest — rest! — there  is  no  other 
Elysium  for  a  heart  like  rainel" 

A  sailor,  half  dozing  on  the  deck,  heard  a  slight  splash  on  the 
water.  Drowsily  he  looked  up,  and  as  the  vessel  merrily 
bounded  on,  he  fancied  he  saw  something  white  above  the 
waves;  but  it  vanished  in  an  instant.  He  turned  around  again, 
and  dreamed  of  his  home  and  children. 

When  the  lovers  awoke,  their  first  thought  was  of  each  other 
— their  next  of  Nydia!  Slie  was  not  to  be  found;  none  had  seen 
her  since  the  night.  Every  crevice  of  the  vessel  was  searched; 
there  was  no  trace  of  her.  Mysterious  from  first  to  last,  the 
blind  Theesalian  hax.1  vanished  forever  from  the  living  world! 
They  gueesed  her  fate  in  silence:  and  Glaucus  and  lone,  while 
thev  drew  nearer  to  each  other  (feeling  each  other  the  world 
itself,)  forgot  their   deliverance  and   wept   as  for   a  departdl 


!ts^  Last  days  of  poMPEii.  ^^ 

CHAPTER  THE  LAST. 

wherein  all  things  cease. 

ugnrfeb.  from  glaucus  to  sallust,  ten  tears  after  tetj 
destruction  of  pompeil 

Athens, 
Glaucusto  his  beloved  Sallust— greeting  and  health!— You 
request  me  to  visit  you  at  Rome — no,  Sallust,  come  rather  to  me 
at  Athens  1  I  have  forsworn  the  Imperial  City,  its  mighty  tu- 
mult and  hollow  joys.  In  my  own  land  henceforth  I  dwell  for 
ever.  The  ghost  oi  our  departed  greatness  is  dearer  to  me  than 
the  gaudy  life  of  your  loud  prosperity.  There  is  a  charm  to  me 
which  no  other  spot  can  supply,  m  the  porticos  hallowed  still  by- 
holy  and  venerable  shades.  In  the  olive  groves  of  Ilyssus  I  still 
hear  the  voice  of  poetry — on  the  hights  of  Phylo,  the  clouds  of 
twihght  seem  yet  the  shrouds  of  departed  freedom — the  heralds 
of  the  morrows  that  shall  come  I  You  smile  at  my 
enthusiasm,  Sallust! — better  be  hopeful  in  chains — than  resigned 
to  their  glitter.  You  tell  me  you  are  sure  that  I  cannot  enjoy 
life  in  these  melancholy  haunts  of  a  fallen  majesty.  You  dwell 
with  rapture  on  the  Roman  splendor,  and  the  luxuries  of  the 
imperial  court.  My  Sallust — non  sum  qaulis  eram — I  am  not 
what  I  was!  The  events  of  myhfe  have  sobered  the  bounding 
blood  of  my  youth.  My  health  has  never  quite  recovered  its 
wonted  elasticity  ere  it  felt  the  pangs  of  disease,  and  languished 
in  the  damps  of  a  criminal's  dungeon.  My  mind  has  never 
shaken  off  the  dark  shadow  of  the  last  day  of  Pompeii — the 
horror  and  desolation  of  that  awful  ruin!— Our  beloved,  our 
remembered  Nydial  I  have  reared  a  tomb  to  her  shade,  and  I  see 
it  every  day  from  the  window  of  my  study.  It  keeps  alive  in  me 
a  tender  recollection — a  not  unpleasing  sadness — which  are  but  a 
fitting  homage  to  her  fidelity,  and  the  mysteriousness  of  her 
early  death.  lone  gathers  the  flowers,  but  my  owti  hand 
wreathes  them  dai^y  around  the  tomb.  She  wa«  worthy  of  a 
tomb  in  Athens! 

You  si)eak  of  the  growing  sect  of  the  Christians  in  Rome. 
Sallust,  to  you  I  confide  my  secret;  I  have  pondered  much  over 
that  faith — I  have  adopted  it.  After  the  destruction  of  Pompeii, 
I  met  once  more  with  Olinthus — saved,  alas!  only  for  a  da^,  and 
falling  afterward  a  martyr  to  the  indomitable  energy  of  his  zeaL 
In  my  preservation  from  the  lion  and  the  earttiquake  he  taught 
me  to  behold  the  hand  of  the  unknown  God!  I  listened — be- 
lieved— adored!  My  own,  my  more  than  ever  beloved  lone,  has 
also  embraced  the  creed! — a  creed,  Sallust,  which,  shedding  Ught 
over  this  world,  gathers  its  concentrated  glory,  like  a  sunset, 
over  the  next!  we  know  that  we  are  united  in  the  soul,  as  in 
the  flesh,  forever  and  ever!  Ages  may  roll  on,  our  very  dust  be 
dissolved,  the  earth  shriveled  like  a  scroll;  but  round  and  round 
the  circle  of  eternity  rolls  the  wheel  of  life — imperishable — un- 
ceasingl  And  as  the  earth  from  the  sun,  so  immortality  drinks 
happiness  from  virtue,  which  is  the  smile  upon  the  face  of  God| 


Jrt?  THE  LAST  DA  W^  OF  POMPEIT. 

Visit  me  then,  Sallust;  bring  with  you  the  learned  scrolls  of 
Epicurus,  Pythagoras.  Diogenes;  arm  yourself  for  defeat,  and 
let  us,  amid  the  groves  of  Academus,  dispute,  under  a  surer 
guide  than  any  granted  to  our  fathers,  on  the  mighty  problem  of 
the  tme  ends  of  life  and  the  nature  of  tbe  soul. 

lone — at  that  nanfie  my  heart  yet  beats! — Tone  is  \j  uij  side  as 
I  Mi4te;  I  lift  my  eyes,  and  meet  her  smile.  The  sunlight  quivers 
over  Hymettus;  and  along  my  garden  I  hear  the  hum  of  th« 
summer  bees.  Am  I  happy,  ask  you?  Oh,  what  can  Rome 
give  me  equal  to  what  I  possess  at  Athens?  Here,  everjthing 
awakens  the  soul  and  inspiree  the  affections — the  trees,  the 
waters,  the  hills,  tbe  skies,  ai-e  those  of  Athens! — fair,  though 
mourning — mother  of  poetry  and  the  wisdom  of  the  world.  In 
my  hall  I  see  the  mai-ble  faces  of  my  ancestors.  In  tbe  Cerami- 
cus,  I  survey  their  tombs!  In  the  streets,  I  behold  tbe  hand  of 
Phidias  and  the  soul  of  Pericles.  Harmodins,  Aristogiton — ihey 
are  everywhere — but  in  our  hearts — in  mine,  at  least,  they  shall 
not  perish  I  If  anything  can  make  me  forget  that  I  am  an 
Athenian  and  not  free,  it  is  partly  the  soothing — the  love — 
watchful,  vivid,  sleepless — of  lone;  a  love  that  has  taken  a  new 
sentiment  in  our  new  creed,  a  love  which  none  of  our  poets, 
beautiful  though  they  be,  had  shadowed  forth  in  description;  for 
mingled  with  religion,  it  partakes  of  religion;  it  is  blended  with 
pure  and  unworldly  thoughts;  it  is  that  wliich  we  may  hope  to 
carry  through  eternity,  and  keep,  therefore,white  and  unsullied, 
that  we  may  not  blush  to  confess  it  to  our  God!  This  is  the  true 
type  of  the  dark  fable  of  our  Grecian  Eros  and  Psyche — it  is,  in 
truth,  the  soul  aslet^p  in  the  arms  of  love.  And,  if  this,  our  love, 
support  me  partly  against  the  fever  of  the  desire  for  freedom,  my 
religion  supports  me  more;  for  whenever  I  would  grasp  the 
sword  and  sound  the  shell,  and  rush  to  a  new  Mai-athon  (but 
Marathon  without  victory),  I  feel  my  despair  at  the  chilling 
thought  of  my  country's  impotence — tlie  crashing  weight  of  the 
Roman  yoke,  comforted,  at  least,  by  the  thought  that  earth  is 
but  the  beginning  of  life — that  the  glory  of  a  few  years  matters 
little  in  the  vast  space  of  eternity — that  there  is  no  perfect  free- 
dom till  the  chains  of  clay  fall  from  the  soul,  and  all  space,  all 
time,  become  its  heritage  and  domain.  Yet,  Sallust,  some  mix- 
ture of  the  Greek  blood  still  mingles  with  my  faith.  I  can  share 
not  tlie  zeal  of  tliosc  who  see  crime  and  eternal  wrath  in  men 
who  cannot  believe  as  they.  I  shudder  not  at  the  creed  of  others. 
I  dare  not  curse  them — I  pray  the  Great  Father  to  cHmvert.  This 
lukewarmness  exposes  me  to  soiue  sus^picion  among  the  Christ- 
ians; but  I  forgive  it;  and,  not  oifending  openly  the  prejudices 
of  the  crowd,  I  am  thus  enabled  I9  protect  my  brethren  from  the 
danger  of  the  law,  and  the  consecjuences  of  their  g^vvti  zeal.  If 
moderation  seem  to  me  the  natural  creature  o*  benevolence,  it 
gives,  also,  tlie  greatest  scope  to  beneficence. 

Such,  then,  O  Sallust!  is  my  life — such  my  opinions.  In  this 
manner  I  greet  existence  aiul  await  death.  And  thou,  glad- 
hearttfd  and  kindly  pui)il  of  Epicurus,  thou — But  come  hither, 
and  see  what  enjoyments,  what  hopes  are  oiu*s — and  not  tlie 
pplendor  of  imperial  banquets,  nor  the  shouts  of  the  crowded 


THE  LAST  DA  T8  OF  POMPEII .  m^ 

circus,  nor  the  noisy  forum,  nor  the  glittering  theater,  nor  th« 
luxuriant  gardens,  nor  the  voluptuous  baths  of  Rome — shall 
eeem  to  thee  to  constitute  a  life  of  more  vivid  and  iminteiTupted 
happiness  than  that  which  thou  so  unseasonably  pitiest  aa  th© 
career  of  Glaucus  the  Athenian  I — Farewell! 

****  ««*« 

Nearly  seventeen  centimes  had  rolled  away  when  the  City  of 
Pompeii  was  disinterred  from  its  silent  tomb,  all  vivid  with  mi- 
dimmed  hues;  its  walls  fresh  as  if  painted  yesterday;  not  a  hue 
faded  on  the  rich  mosaic  of  its  floors — in  its  forum  the  half- 
finished  columns  as  left  by  the  workman's  hand — in  its  garden 
the  sacrilicial  tripod — in  its  halls  the  chesi;  of  treasure — in  its 
baths  the  strigil — in  its  theater  the  counter  of  admission — in  its 
saloons  the  furniture  and  the  lamp — in  its  triclinia  the  frag- 
ments of  the  last  feast — in  its  cubicula  the  perfumes  and  the 
rouge  of  faded  beauty — and  everywhere  the  bones  and  skeletons 
of  those  who  once  moved  the  springs  of  that  minute  yet  gor- 
geous machine  of  luxury  and  of  life  I 

In  the  house  of  Diomed,  in  the  subterranean  vaults,  twenty 
skeletons  (one  of  a  babe)  were  discovered  in  one  spot  by  thedooi, 
covered  by  a  fine  ashen  dust,  that  had  evidently  been  wafted 
slowly  through  the  apertures,  until  it  had  filled  the  whole  space. 
There  were  jewels  and  coins,  candelabra  for  unavailing  light, 
and  wine  hardened  in  the  amphorae  for  a  prolongation  of  agon- 
ized life.  The  sand  consolidated  by  damps,  had  taken  the  forms 
of  the  skeletons  as  in  a  cast;  and  the  traveler  may  yet  see  the 
impression  of  a  female  neck  and  bosom  of  young  and  round 
proportions — the  trace  of  the  fated  Julia  1  It  seems  to  the  in- 
quu'er  as  if  the  air  had  been  gradually  changed  into  a  sulphur- 
ous vapor;  the  inmates  of  the  vaults  had  rushed  to  the  door,  to 
find  it  closed  and  blocked  up  by  the  scoria  without,  and  in  their 
attempts  to  force  it,  had  been  suffocated  by  the  atmosphere. 

In  the  garden  was  found  a  skeleton  with  a  key  by  its  bony 
hand,  and  near  it  a  bag  of  coins.  This  is  belived  to  have  been 
the  master  of  the  house — the  unfortunate  Diomed,  w^ho  had 
probably  sought  to  escape  by  the  garden,  and  been  destroyed 
either  by  the  vapors  or  some  fragment  of  stone.  Beside  some 
silver  vases  lay  another  skeleton,  probably  of  a  slave. 

The  houses  of  Sallust  and  of  Paiisa,  the  Temple  of  Isis,  with 
the  juggling  concealments  behind  the  statues — the  lurking-place 
of  its  holy  oracles — are  now  bared  to  the  gaze  of  the  curious. 
In  one  of  the  chambers  of  that  temple  was  found  a  huge  skeleton 
with  an  ax  beside  it:  two  walls  had  been  pierced  by  the  ax — the 
victim  could  penetrate  no  farther.  In  the  midst  of  the  city  was 
found  another  skeleton,  by  the  side  of  which  was  a  heap  of  coins, 
and  many  of  the  mystic  ornaments  of  the  fane  of  Isis.  Death 
had  fallen  upon  him  in  his  avarice,  and  Calenus  perished  simul- 
taneously with  Burbol  As  the  excavators  cleared  on  through 
the  mass  of  ruin,  they  found  a  skeleton  of  a  man  literally  severed 
in  two  by  a  prostrate  colunm;  the  akull  was  of  ao  striking  a  con- 
formation, so  boldly  marked  in  its  intellectual,  as  well  as  its 
worse  physical  developments,  that  it  has  excited  the  constant 
speculation  of  every  itmerant  believer  in  the  theories  of  Spurx^- 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEU. 


heim  who  has  gazed  upon  that  ruined  palace  of  the  mind.  Still, 
after  the  lapse  of  ages,  the  traveler  may  surrey  that  airy  hall 
^;«'ithin  whose  cunning  galleries  and  elaborate  chambers  once 
thought,  reasoned,  dreamed,  and  sinned,  the  soul  of  Arbacee  the 
Egyptian. 

Viewing  the  various  witnesses  of  a  social  system  which  has 
passed  from  the  world  forever — a  stranger  from  that  remote  and 
Darbarian  Isle  which  the  imperial  Roman  shivered  when  h§ 
aamed,  paused  amid  the  delights  of  the  soft  Campania  and 
posed  tins  history  I 

[THS  BND.] 


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